THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  BOOKS  OF 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 
Memorial  Edition 

TAKING    THE    COUNT 

PRIZE    RING   STORIES 

WITH  FOREWORD  BY 
IRVIN  S.  COBB 


TAKING  THE  COUNT 

PRIZE    RING   STORIES 


BY 

CHARLES  E.  VAN  LOAN 

FOREWORD  BY 

IRVIN  S.  COBB 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1915, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1913, 1914,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

BY  IRVIN  S.  COBB 


His  full  name  was  Charles  Emmet  Van 
Loan,  a  name  to  make  a  mouthful.  He  signed 
himself  in  his  private  correspondence  C.  E.  Van 
Loan  and  in  his  published  writings,  Chas.  E. 
Van  Loan.  But  I  never  knew  anybody  who 
knew  him  but  called  him  "Charley"  or  more 
often  still,  "Van";  and  I  imagine  that  to  those 
of  his  readers  who  did  not  know  him  except  as 
they  felt  his  personality  showing  through  the 
printed  page  he  was  "Charley"  Van  Loan, 
nearly  always.  We  employ  those  shortenings 
of  the  proper  name  only  for  those  we  like  and 
for  those  we  love,  or  for  those  we  feel  we  would 
love  did  we  come  to  know  them;  they  are  the 
slangy  diminutives  of  an  universal  regard;  be 
cause  no  man  ever  gained  an  affectionate  abbre 
viation  of  his  baptismal  title  and  kept  it  who 
in  the  estimation  of  his  contemporaries  had  not 
earned  it  by  right  of  friendly  conquest.  We 
nickname  our  geysers,  but  not  our  glaciers ;  the 
one  typifies  that  which  flows,  which  bubbles, 
which  has  motion  and  sparkle  and  quickness; 
the  other  typifies  that  which  is  frozen  and  slow 
and  hard.  What  is  true  of  nature 's  wonders  is 

[vii] 

754922 


FOREWORD 


true  of  nature's  human  products.  And  so  Van 
had  to  be  Van  and  it  is  as  Van  that  I  love  now 
to  think  of  him.  He  was  Van  here ;  I'm  sure  he 
is  Van  over  there  on  the  Other  Side  where  he 
is  gone  to  be  one  of  the  blest  brotherhood  of 
those  who  in  life  loved  their  fellowmen  and 
made  their  fellows  happier  because  they  had 
lived. 

My  task  here  is  to  write  a  foreword  for  one 
of  the  books  of  this  edition  of  his  collected  writ 
ings,  but  it  is  hard  for  one  who  knew  him,  as  I 
did  through  a  period  of  years,  to  deal  with  any 
of  his  works  and  at  the  same  time  forbear  say 
ing  something  on  the  personal  side  regarding 
their  creator. 

He  was  so  much  a  man  and  yet  so  much  a 
boy.  Nor  do  I  appraise  this  estimate  as  having 
a  paradoxical  sound.  He  was  all  the  more  the 
man  for  being  so  entirely  the  boy. 

It  is  easy  to  speak  praise  of  the  dead.  They 
cannot  answer  back  for  themselves  and  it  ill 
becomes  those  who  live  to  refute  the  kindly 
word.  Nobody  ever  yet  took  public  issue  with 
an  epitaph  or  gave  the  loud-voiced  lie  to  the 
gracious  wording  of  a  funeral  piece.  But  of  Van 
Loan  dead  I  can  say  in  all  truth  what  I  could 
have  said  of  Van  Loan  alive,  with  none  to  con 
tradict  me:  I  never  knew  him  to  say  a  cruel 
thing  or  any  undeservedly  harsh  thing  of  any 
creature;  I  never  knew  him  to  write  a  cruel 
thing  or  a  dirty  thing;  I  never  knew  him  to  do 
a  cruel  thing.  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  thought 
one.  His  wit  was  never  barbed  with  venom ;  no 
[viii] 


FOREWORD 


yellow  trace  of  envy  or  jealousy  or  spitefulness 
underlaid  the  currents  of  his  mind;  no  savor  of 
smuttiness  ever  muddied  up  in  the  wake  of  his 
smoothly  flowing  pen.  If  for  those  who  in  the 
flesh  were  kindly,  were  generous,  were  sweet- 
tempered,  were  brave  and  self-sacrificing — if 
for  those  who  as  they  walked  this  earth,  found 
joy  in  giving  and  glory  in  serving — there  is 
eternal  reward  hereafter,  I  know  full  well 
where  my  friend  is  to-day,  and  what  fellowship 
he  keeps;  and  in  that  thought  lies  my  accept 
ance  of  the  stroke  of  fate  which  took  him  away 
while  still  he  was  lusty  and  young,  and  before 
his  work  was  done. 

Being  so  essentially  a  red-blooded  man,  it 
was  natural  that  he  wrote  most  often  of  the  do 
ings  and  the  sayings  of  the  red-blooded  folk, 
their  sports,  their  pastimes  and  their  pleasures. 
And  how  well  he  did  it, — with  such  a  whimsical 
insight  into  their  pretensions,  with  such  a  keen 
perception  of  their  virtues ;  with  such  a  marvel 
ous  reportorial  ability  to  make  you  see  his  cre 
ations  not  as  figments  of  fiction,  but  as  flesh  and 
blood  realities,  true  to  type  and  truly  typed, 
making  you  feel  that  when  he  put  words  into 
the  mouth  of  one  of  his  characters  of  prize-ring, 
or  race-track,  or  ball  field,  or  "movie"  studio, 
the  words  were  just  exactly  the  words  which 
that  particular  character  would  inevitably 
speak  at  that  particular  time  and  place.  His 
gift  for  dialogue  has  been  praised  as  masterly, 
and  so  it  was,  but  to  my  way  of  thinking  his 
highest  power  lay  in  the  art  he  had  of  present- 

[ix] 


FOREWORD 


ing  a  complete  likeness  of  an  individual  in  a 
single  stroke.  Plenty  of  men  can  write  the 
Lord's  Prayer  on  a  postage  stamp.  Van  Loan 
had  a  craftier  knack  than  that — he  could  paint 
a  portrait  in  a  paragraph. 

Take  some  extracts  from  this  present  volume, 
— for  example, — where  in  the  story  called  * '  The 
Spotted  Sheep ' '  he  introduces  you  to  one  of  his 
heroes  after  this  wise : 

"Billy  Allison  was  not  exactly  a  black  sheep 
nor  yet  a  white  one.  Both  colors  were  woven 
into  the  fabric  of  his  character,  the  black  spots 
representing  the  bad  impulses  and  the  white 
spots  representing  the  good  ones  ...  a  moral 
snap  shot  of  Billy  Allison's  soul  would  have 
resembled  a  piece  of  shepherd's  plaid." 

Or  this  one : 

"Isidore  Mandelbaum  did  not  fight  because 
he  loved  fighting.  A  stiff  jab  upon  his  promi 
nent  nose  had  no  charms  for  him ;  a  well-timed 
hook  to  the  point  of  the  chin  roused  in  him  no 
wild  enthusiasm  for  the  conflict.  Isidore  was  a 
gladiator  for  revenue  only.  The  jingle  of  the 
shekels  in  the  box-office  made  a  strong  appeal 
to  his  nature;  the  soft  rustle  of  currency  was 
soothing  to  his  soul.  Propose  an  engagement 
to  the  average  boxer  of  Isidore's  caliber,  and 
the  first  question  would  never  vary:  'Who 
with?'  Propose  one  to  Mandelbaum,  and  he 
would  ask  'How  much?'  ' 

Prize  fighting  is  full  of  Isidore  Mandelbaums 
but  it  took  Van  Loan  to  portray  a  common  type 
in  six  short  illuminating  sentences.  And  who 


FOREWORD 


in  fewer  words  ever  summarized  more  com 
pletely  a  situation  than  Van  Loan  did  when  he 
wrote : 

' '  The  American  prize  ring  has  produced  hun 
dreds  of  sports,  four  or  five  genuine  sportsmen 
and  a  genius  or  two. " 

But  he  did  not  unduly  burden  his  tales  with 
character  sketches  nor  yet  make  them  staccato 
with  dialogue.  For  descriptions  of  scenes  of 
action  he  had  a  talent  which  was  more  than  a 
talent;  it  was  a  genius.  Eead  here  any  one  of 
his  accounts  of  ring  battles  and  you  are  bound 
to  tingle  to  the  vividness  of  the  bold,  accurate 
drawing  of  the  fight,  even  as,  subconsciously, 
you  marvel  at  the  versatility  of  the  narrator. 

Van  Loan's  stories  will  live  among  those  who 
speak  our  tongue  and  appreciate  our  sporting 
institutions.  For  that  matter,  the  stories  of 
many  a  writer  will  live  on  after  that  writer  is 
gone  and  forgotten.  Van  is  gone,  but  he  will 
not  be  forgotten.  He  still  lives,  and  in  the 
memories  of  those  who  loved  him,  which  means 
a  multitude,  he  always  will  live. 

If  I  were  writing  the  words  which  will  be 
carved  upon  the  stone  above  his  grave;  if  in 
writing  those  words  I  were  restricted  to  but 
a  few  words,  I  think  I  should  write : 

"A  man's  man  all  over — but  children  loved 
him," 


[xi] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE  SPORTING  DOCTOR    ..........    s  9 

ONE-THIRTY-THREE — RINGSIDE      ....    g    ...  62 

THE  SPOTTED  SHEEP s.  91 

ON  ACCOUNT  OF  A  LADY g    .    .    .  122 

No  BUSINESS «    .    .    ,    5    .    .    .  147 

OUT  OF  His  CLASS ,    ....  174 

SCRAP  IRON s    ....  203 

THE  PEARL  BROOCH *.*...  242 

THE  REVENGE  OF  Kn>  MORALES    .    i    ......  267 

EASY  PICKING *..*«.  289 

FOR  THE  PICTURES  ...    *  315 


TAKING  THE  COUNT 


THE  SPORTING  DOCTOR 


WHEN  the  lightweight  champion  of  the 
world  went  to  his  corner  after  the 
eighth  round,  he  was  puffing  badly,  and 
his  knees  were  shaking. 

"What  are  you  stalling  for,  Billy?"  de 
manded  "Tacks"  McLowrie,  the  champion's 
manager,  chief  second,  and  adviser.  "Why 
don't  you  tear  into  this  stiff  and  show  him  how 
to  take  a  joke?" 

"I — I  ain't  stalling,"  panted  the  champion. 
"This  is  a  tough  fellow — strong  as  a  bull — can't 
seem  to  get  started,  somehow." 

"You  copped  him  nice  with  that  right  swing," 
said  McLowrie,  realizing  that  encouragement 
was  needed.  "It  set  him  back  on  his  heels." 

"Yes,  and  he  laughed  at  me — didn't  hurt  him 
a  bit — just  as  strong  in  the  clinches  as  ever — 
I'll  get  him — when  I  get  started." 

"Aw,  there's  lots  of  time,"  said  McLowrie 
soothingly.  "Make  him  lead  more,  Billy.  Pull 
him  out  of  position,  and  cross  him  with  the 
right.  Hands  hurting  you  any?" 

The  champion  nodded.  In  spite  of  the  soft 
bandages,  the  old  dislocations  were  bothering 

[9] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


him.  A  fighter,  like  a  baseball  player,  a  short- 
card  dealer,  or  a  pianist,  is  no  better  than  his 
hands — and  " Billy"  Wade's  hands  were  bad. 
The  right,  which  he  had  damaged  on  "Buck 
skin"  Kelly's  head  two  years  before,  was  throb 
bing  painfully. 

"Use  your  left  more,"  said  McLowrie.  "Keep 
him  away  from  you.  Nix  on  the  infighting ;, 
make  him  box.  You've  had  every  round  so 
far." 

"Think  so?" 

' '  Why,  a  thousand  miles ! ' '  Thus  do  seconds 
and  advisers  stimulate  confidence  at  the  expense 
of  veracity. 

In  the  other  angle  of  the  ring,  "Frankie" 
Brady,  a  freckled,  shock-headed  young  thunder 
bolt,  was  also  listening  to  counsel. 

"I  knew  this  sucker  wasn't  half  trained," 
said  "Bo"  Brooks,  his  manager.  "Go  right 
after  his  body;  there's  where  he's  weak.  For 
get  that  he 's  got  a  jaw  at  all ;  cave  in  his  belly, 
and  he's  yours." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Brady.  "Did  you 
hear  him  when  I  sunk  that  right  into  his 
stomach?  Grunted  like  a  pig.  I  tell  you,  he 
don't  like  'em  down  there!" 

"Yes,"  said  Brooks,  "and  the  fellow  that 
does  is  a  fool.  He's  tired,  and  he  wants  to 
stall.  Keep  right  on  top  of  him  all  the  time — 
make  him  fight  himself  out.  Bough  him  up  in 
the  clinches." 

Back  in  the  third  row  of  the  reserved  seat 
section,  a  fattish  young  man  peered  through 

[10] 


THE   SPORTING  DOCTOE 


his  glasses.  He  was  watching  the  champion's 
corner  intently,  noting  every  move.  He  saw  the 
heaving  chest,  the  drawn  look  about  the  mouth, 
and  the  distress  in  the  half -closed  eyes. 

* '  I  think  Billy  has  hung  it  all  over  Brady  so 
far,"  said  a  red-faced  man,  sitting  beside  the 
one  with  the  glasses.  "He's  a  slow  beginner 
you  know,  Doc." 

"My  friend,"  said  the  fattish  young  man 
calmly,  ' '  the  champion  is  all  through.  He  shot 
his  bolt  in  the  first  six  rounds." 

"Huh!"  said  the  red-faced  man.  "He  ain't 
started  yet!" 

' '  Take  a  good  look  at  him,  and  tell  me  when 
you  think  he's  going  to  get  started.  In  the 
first  place,  he's  in  no  sort  of  shape  for  a  hard 
fight,  and  in  the  second " 

The  red-faced  man  sputtered  incoherently  as 
he  fished  out  a  thick  roll  of  bills. 

' '  Fifty  will  get  you  a  hundred  if  you  think  so, 
Doc !  Two  to  one  that  Wade  wins ! ' ' 

The  fattish  young  man  smiled  sadly.  With 
thumb  and  forefinger  he  extracted  several  paste 
boards  from  his  vest  pocket  and  spread  them 
fanwise,  like  a  hand  at  whist. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  take  you,  Joe,"  said  he. 
"I'm  already  down — and  out." 

The  red-faced  man  glanced  at  the  pool-room 
tickets,  and  his  face  grew  redder  than  ever. 

"Why,  what  the Say!  You  got  eight 

hundred  bet  on  him,  and  you're  quitting  al 
ready?" 

[11] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


The  f attish  young  man  solemnly  returned  the 
tickets  to  his  pocket. 

"Not  quitting,"  said  he,  "merely  conceding 
that  I  haven't  got  a  chance.  I  never  allow  my 
bets  to  influence  my  judgment,  Joe,  and  I'm 
afraid  in  this  case  that  I  didn't  allow  my  judg 
ment  to  influence  my  bets.  There  will  be  a  new 
champion  of  the  world  inside  of  fifteen  min 
utes." 

"Bet  you  ten  to  one  there  ain't!" 

The  young  man  with  the  glasses  explored 
his  pockets  and  brought  forth  some  halves, 
quarters,  and  dimes. 

"Your  price  is  all  out  of  line,  Joe,"  said  he; 
"and,  besides  that,  you're  betting  on  sympathy. 
I  never  hedged  before  in  my  life,  but  if 
you  insist — four  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents 
against  forty-eight-fifty  that  before  ten- twenty- 
one  p.  m.  Frankie  Brady  will  be  the  lightweight 
champion  of  the  world." 

"Why  not  five  against  fifty?" 

"Because,"  said  the  f  attish  young  man,  "I 
make  it  a  rule  never  to  bet  more  than  I  can 
pay.  Four-eighty-five  just  taps  me,  Joe,  and  if 
you  win  I'll  have  to  hold  out  breakfast  money." 

"All  right,  shoot  the  four-eighty-five,"  said 
Joe,  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  had  eight 
hundred  iron  men  bet  on  a  fighter  I'd  be  root 
ing  my  head  off  for  him  to  win  instead  of  wait 
ing  for  his  finish." 

"There's  no  virtue  in  rooting,"  said  the 
other,  opening  his  cigarette  case.  "All  the  en- 

[12] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


couragement  in  the  world,  vocal  or  otherwise, 
won't  take  the  place  of  stamina." 

During  the  ninth  round,  Brady  landed  a  solid 
right-hander  to  the  stomach,  and  the  champion 
wilted  under  it.  The  challenger,  aware  that  his 
man  was  weakening,  followed  his  advantage 
with  a  vicious  streak  of  infighting.  Wade  tried 
to  clinch  and  blanket  the  piston-like  blows,  but 
Brady  would  not  have  it  so,  and  crowded  the 
champion  along  the  ropes,  driving  in  short, 
punishing  jolts  to  the  body.  Wade  was  weak 
and  gasping  when  the  bell  rang. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me," 
he  wailed,  when  he  reached  his  corner.  "I 
can't  seem  to  get  started!" 

"You'd  better  start  pretty  soon,"  said  Mc- 
Lowrie. 

Reddy  Burke  was  swinging  a  towel  in  Wade's 
corner.  A  sturdy  little  boxer  who  just  escaped 
the  top-notch  flight  of  lightweights,  he  had 
attached  himself  to  Wade's  fortunes  in  the 
capacity  of  sparring  partner,  and  the  boys  were 
inseparable  companions. 

"Aw,  go  git  him,  Billy!"  said  Burke.  "He 
ain't  got  a  thing.  Tear  his  block  off!" 

The  tenth  round  saw  the  champion  on  the 
floor  twice,  and  the  second  time  he  took  nine 
seconds  before  rising. 

The  fattish  young  man  nodded  at  the  red- 
faced  one  during  the  interval  between  the  tenth 
and  eleventh  rounds. 

"Smelling  salts  and  brandy,"  said  he.  "It's 
about  over.  Good-by,  Billy  Wade." 

[13] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


The  red-faced  man  did  not  answer.  His 
lower  lip  was  trembling,  and  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  know  how  you  feel,  Joe,"  said  his  friend. 
"I  hate  to  see  him  whipped,  too,  because  he's 
been  a  great  little  fighter;  but — they  all  get  it 
sooner  or  later.'* 

"He  ain't  fighting  his  fight!"  groaned  Joe. 
"If  he  only  had  a  flash  of  his  old  form — just 
a  flash!  Doc,  he  used  to  murder  fellows  like 
this  Brady.  There  wasn't  a  lightweight  that 
could  stand  up  to  him  at  infighting;  but  Brady's 
licking  him  at  his  own  game.  What's  wrong 
.with  him?  Can  he  be  doped  or  something?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  fattish  young  man;  "doped 
with  alcohol  and  nicotine.  The  stamina  isn't 
there.  That  was  all  that  ever  made  Billy  Wade 
a  champion.  He's  lost  it,  and  now  he's  a  mark 
for  a  second-rater.  Too  bad!" 

The  sting  of  brandy  in  his  throat,  and  the 
pungent  odor  of  aromatic  spirits  of  ammonia 
in  his  nostrils,  the  champion  was  helped  out  of 
his  corner  at  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh 
round.  His  arms  hung  like  leaden  weights,  and. 
he  shuffled  rather  than  walked  to  the  middle  of 
the  ring.  Brady  rushed  to  meet  him,  smothered 
a  last  dying  flurry  in  a  clinch,  and  the  crowd 
rose  to  watch  the  passing  of  one  of  the  blue  rib 
bons  of  the  athletic  world.  After  the  third 
knock-down,  Tacks  McLowrie  picked  up  a 
sponge  and  fingered  it  thoughtfully.  Eeddy 
Burke  snatched  it  from  his  hand. 

[14] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


"Not  that  way!"  said  he  fiercely.  "He's  a 
champion  yet,  and  a  champion  never  quits !" 

Billy  Wade  did  not  quit,  nor  was  the  sponge 
thrown  into  the  ring.  Brady  measured  the  reel 
ing  figure  carefully,  plumped  a  right-hander 
home  under  the  heart,  and  followed  it  with  a 
short  hook  to  the  chin.  This  time  Wade  did  not 
attempt  to  rise,  and  Frankie  Brady's  first  act 
as  a  champion  was  to  carry  the  defeated  man 
to  his  corner,  where  he  placed  him  gently  upon 
his  stool. 

"Poor  old  scout!"  said  Brady.  "He  gave 
me  a  tough  battle. ' ' 

"Yah!"  sneered  Eeddy  Burke.  "You  was 
lucky  to  catch  him  out  o'  condition!  Wait  till 
we  get  you  again,  that's  all!" 

Brady  grinned,  and,  recalling  his  ring  man 
ners,  shook  Wade's  limp  right  hand.  Then  the 
advance  guard  of  hero  worshipers  poured 
through  the  ropes  and  surrounded  the  winner, 
patting  him  on  the  back  and  showering  him 
with  florid  compliments. 

"Oh,  you  Brady!" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  be  soft  for  you?" 

"Hooray  for  the  new  champion!" 

The  fattish  young  man  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"Not  quite  eleven  minutes,"  said  he  coolly. 
"Joe,  I'll  trouble  you  for  that  forty-eight-fifty. 
I'm  going  to  need  it." 

It  was  some  time  before  the  arena  was 
cleared.  The  fattish  young  man  climbed  upon 
his  chair  and  watched  the  defeated  champion 
as  he  was  assisted  toward  the  dressing  room. 

[15] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


His  arms  dangled  at  his  sides,  his  shoulders 
sagged,  and  he  was  mumbling  to  himself : 

"Couldn't  get  started — don't  know  why — 
Brady  can't  hit  hard  enough  to  stop  me." 

The  fattish  young  man  took  the  pool-room 
tickets  from  his  pocket,  tore  them  small,  and 
tossed  the  bits  into  the  air. 

"Serves  me  right!"  said  he.  "It'll  be  a  les 
son  to  me." 


In  every  college  class  there  is  one  beloved 
youth  who  wins  the  engaging  pseudonym  of 
"Sport." 

Arthur  Phelps  had  been  "Sport"  Phelps 
from  his  grammar-school  days.  Happy-go- 
lucky,  irresponsible,  open-handed,  and  gener 
ous  to  a  fault,  whether  his  own  or  another's, 
the  name  clung  to  him  through  medical  college. 

The  poker-playing  freshmen  soon  discovered 
that  Phelps  would  draw  four  cards  to  an  ace, 
or  stand  a  back-raise  upon  a  pair,  no  matter 
how  small.  This  is  not  a  system  which  recom 
mends  itself  to  those  who  desire  to  profit  at 
cards,  but  it  is  very  certain  indication  that  the 
man  who  follows  it  gambles  because  he  loves 
the  game  and  not  because  he  has  any  great 
desire  to  win. 

A  brilliant  student  when  he  felt  there  was 
need  of  study,  Phelps  managed  to  squeeze 
through  the  medical  course  and  pass  his  final 
examinations.  The  winning  of  a  diploma  did 
not  seem  to  interest  him  nearly  so  much  as  the 

[16] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


winning  of  several  bets  at  seven  to  five — Phelps 
on  the  short  end — that  he  would  be  "plucked" 
by  the  examining  board. 

His  average  was  not  particularly  high,  apro 
pos  of  which  he  remarked : 

' '  Three  deuces  beat  aces  and  kings — not  very 
much,  fellows ;  but  just  enough  to  take  the  pot. 
Send  in." 

He  gave  an  elaborate  dinner  to  the  losers, 
who  presented  him  with  a  loving  cup  which  was 
almost  silver,  addressed  him  ceremoniously  as 
"Doctor,"  and  grieved  very  much  at  parting 
with  him,  for  Phelps  had  announced  that  he 
was  going  West  to  "establish  himself  in  the 
profession." 

Time  was  heavy  upon  his  idle  hands  in  the 
Western  city,  and  an  empty  office  is  a  lonely 
place  in  which  to  wait  for  a  practice.  Phelps 
joined  a  few  clubs  of  the  sort  where  cards  are 
played  and  checks  passed  underneath  the  table, 
thus  circumventing  the  house  committee  and 
the  strict  rules  against  gambling  upon  the 
premises.  He  came  to  spend  a  great  deal  of 
time  at  auction  bridge,  which  he  found  a  perma 
nent  investment,  for  he  could  never  resist  the 
temptation  to  "kick"  a  strong  bid. 

His  associates,  idle  young  men  for  the  most 
part,  welcomed  him  joyfully  as  "Doc."  Some 
preternaturally  grave  young  men  with  pin- 
feather  whiskers  are  "Doctor"  to  their  inti 
mates,  and  rather  insist  upon  this  form  of 
salutation.  The  only  difference  which  a  diploma 

[17] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


made  in  Arthur  Phelps  was  that  he  ceased  to 
be  " Sport"  and  became  "Doc." 

Absence  from  office  during  office  hours  is  not 
good  for  a  budding  practice,  nor  does  it  help  a 
practice  which  shows  no  signs  of  flowering.  Un 
fortunately  for  Phelps,  he  had  an  assured  in 
come — not  as  large  a  one  as  he  would  have  liked, 
perhaps,  but  still  enough  to  keep  the  wolf  at  a 
respectful  distance.  Lacking  the  spur  of  neces 
sity,  he  fell  into  careless  habits  of  life  and  of 
mind.  He  did  not  worry  over  the  fact  that  his 
date  book  was  a  blank,  and  that  the  steady 
plodders  who  stayed  in  their  offices  were  build 
ing  up  paying  practices. 

Doc  Phelps  was  a  drifter,  in  danger  of  becom 
ing  a  moral  derelict  and  a  victim  of  fatty  de 
generation  of  the  ambition.  He  was  idle,  and 
the  worst  thing  about  an  idle  man  is  that  he  is 
seldom  fit  to  choose  his  amusements.  Anything 
which  involved  physical  exercise  was  out  of  the 
question,  for  he  had  the  short  breath  of  the 
cigarette  smoker,  and  every  muscle  and  tissue 
in  his  body  was  overlaid  with  soft,  unwholesome 
fat.  A  brisk  run  up  a  single  flight  of  stairs 
was  enough  to  set  his  heart  to  drumming,  so  he 
chose  sedentary  amusements  and  took  as  much 
of  his  pleasure  as  possible  sitting  down. 

The  city  in  which  he  was  located  was  the 
logical  center  of  the  boxing  world,  and  Phelps, 
interested  in  all  forms  of  sport,  fell  into  the 
habit  of  driving  his  runabout  out  to  the  differ 
ent  training  camps  to  watch  the  men  at  work. 
It  was  a  pleasant  way  to  pass  an  afternoon,  and 

[18] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


certainly  a  better  one  than  sitting  in  a  leather 
chair  at  the  club,  playing  bridge  at  five  cents 
a  point  and  taking  a  drink  every  fourth  hand. 

The  boxers  came  to  know  this  amiable  loafer 
with  the  double  chin,  the  glasses,  and  the  ready 
smile,  and  as  time  went  on,  they  honored  him 
with  their  friendship,  and  gave  him  their  con 
fidence.  All  the  members  of  the  Queensberry 
brigade  are  not  seasoned  and  sophisticated; 
many  of  them  are  honest,  earnest  youngsters, 
simple  and  direct  as  children  and  untutored  as 
Hottentots.  Doc  Phelps  found  them  entertain 
ing,  and  their  quaint  philosophy  of  life  inter 
ested  him. 

One  day  "Laddy"  McGrath,  a  preliminary 
boy  of  more  than  ordinary  ability,  showed 
Phelps  a  badly  swollen  right  hand. 

' '  These  bum  trainers  around  here  have  been 
fooling  with  it,  Doc,  but  they  don't  seem  to  do 
it  much  good.  I  hurt  it  six  months  ago,  and  it 
hasn't  been  right  since." 

Phelps  made  a  careful  examination  of  the 
hand. 

"When  do  you  fight  again,  Laddy?" 

"Next  week— the  Washoe  Kid." 

"H'm!  Well,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  cancel  that 
date,  son.  You've  got  two  dislocated  joints  here, 
and  if  you  keep  on  boxing  with  your  hand  in  this 
shape,  you'll  have  to  quit  for  keeps  pretty  soon. 
I  can  fix  this  up  for  you,  but  what  it  needs  most 
is  rest.  Come  to  my  office  at  eleven  o  'clock  to 
morrow  morning. ' ' 

"I  ain't  got  no  dough,  Doc." 
[19] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


"Who  said  anything  about  money?  Do  you 
want  that  hand  fixed  up  or  not?" 

"I  sure  do,"  said  the  boy.  "I'll  be  there, 
Doc." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  Phelps'  pork-and- 
bean  practice,  as  he  called  it.  Laddy  McGrath, 
his  right  hand  as  good  as  new  and  his  nose 
slightly  remodeled  so  that  he  could  breathe  with 
his  mouth  closed,  was  a -walking,  talking  adver 
tisement  of  lhe  virtues  of  his  friend,  Doc 
Phelps,  and  the  other  preliminary  boys  flocked 
to  him  with  their  troubles.  Broken  hands, 
sprained  thumbs,  flattened  noses,  and  the  vari 
ous  mischances  of  battle — they  took  them  all 
to  the  sporting  doctor,  and  he  patched  them  up. 
Not  the  least  of  his  treatment  was  the  sound 
advice  which  he  gave  them,  explaining  simple 
hygienic  principles  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

"The  Doc  is  all  right,"  said  the  pork-and- 
bean  fighters.  "He  always  tells  you  why  you 
ought  to  do  things,  or  why  not,  and  he  knows 
how  a  feller  can  keep  in  shape.  Some  gambler, 
too!  He'll  bet  'em  as  much  money  as  they'll 
take  whenever  he  thinks  he's  right." 

It  was  Phelps '  habit  of  betting  them  as  much 
money  as  they  would  take  which  put  a  serious 
crimp  in  his  bank  account — wiped  it  out  alto 
gether,  in  fact.  Like  many  followers  of  the 
boxing  game,  the  Doc  was  a  firm  believer  in 
supporting  a  champion  as  long  as  he  bore  the 
title,  and  the  Brady- Wade  battle  laid  him  low 
for  several  months,  during  which  period  his  bets 
were  small.  But  it  was  only  because  they  had 

[20] 


THE   SPOUTING   DOCTOR 


to  be,  and  compulsory  virtue  does  not  strength 
en  the  flabby  tissues  of  the  soul. 

"It'll  be  a  lesson  to  me,"  said  he;  but  in  his 
heart  he  knew*  that  the  lesson  would  not  last 
beyond  the  lean  period. 

m 

Another  young  man  might  have  learned  a 
profitable  lesson  from  that  battle,  but  it  is  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  convince  an  ex- 
champion  that  he  is  entering  into  the  physical 
decline  which  leads  to  the  Queensberry  scrap 
heap.  A  prima  donna  may  admit  that  she  has 
lost  her  top  notes;  a  matinee  idol  sometimes 
drops  gracefully  into  character  parts,  but  the 
passing  of  a  champion  is  a  thing  which  must  be 
demonstrated  upon  his  stubborn  jaw.  Defeat 
wrought  in  Billy  Wade  nothing  but  a  wild,  un 
reasoning  rage  and  the  firm  belief  that  he  was 
the  victim  of  a  widespread  conspiracy. 

"Here's  all  the  papers  hollering  that  I'm 
through — down  and  out, ' '  said  he  to  Tacks  Mc- 
Lowrie.  "You'd  think  I  had  whiskers  a  foot 
long,  the  way  these  sporting  editors  pan  me. 
Brady  is  afraid  to  fight  me  again — says  I'll 
have  to  wait,  eh?  All  right.  Go  get  any  of 
these  lightweights  for  me;  I'll  meet  'em  all. 
After  I've  trimmed  up  the  bunch,  Brooks  and 
Brady  won't  have  a  chance  to  give  me  the  go 
by.  The  public  will  force  that  stiff  to  fight 
me  again!" 

So  Tacks  McLowrie,  who  was  no  intellectual 
[21] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


Sandow  himself,  stepped  into  the  open  market 
and  hawked  the  services  of  the  late  lightweight 
champion  of  the  world.  Promoters  were  per 
fectly  willing  to  give  Wade  matches,  because  he 
was  a  drawing  card;  but  they  pointed  out  to 
McLowrie  that  he  was  no  longer  in  a  position  to 
demand  the  promoter's  right  eye  as  a  bonus, 
a  piggish  habit  into  which  champions'  man 
agers  have  fallen. 

''Well,  that's  all  right!"  fumed  "Wade. 
"What  we  want  is  the  fight.  I  want  to  show 
these  knockers  where  they  get  off. ' ' 

Tacks  made  the  first  match  with  Eddie 
Mahoney,  a  dazzling  boxer  who  had  been  trying 
for  several  seasons  to  jab  his  way  to  a  cham 
pionship.  Wade  had  beaten  him  before  quite 
handily,  and  with  the  bright  light  of  the  cham 
pionship  still  in  his  eyes,  he  held  Mahoney 
cheaply  and  refused  to  train  as  if  for  a  hard 
match. 

"I  got  him  before  in  a  punch,  didn't  It"  was 
his  argument.  " Watch  me  do  it  again." 

Honest  training  is  hard  work,  and  Billy  was 
fond  of  long,  black  cigars,  cocktails,  late  hours, 
and  other  energy  destroyers.  He  liked  to  have 
people  pat  him  on  the  back  and  tell  him  how 
great  he  was,  consequently  he  haunted  the 
places  where  people  of  this  sort  could  see  him. 
A  few  runs  on  the  road,  a  week  of  boxing  with 
the  faithful  Eeddy  Burke,  and  Wade  announced 
himself  as  ready  to  put  up  the  battle  of  his  life. 

Eddie  Mahoney  ran  rings  around  the  ex- 
fehampion  for  fourteen  rounds,  and  then  fought 

[22] 


THE   SPOUTING   DOCTOE 


him  to  a  standstill  in  the  remaining  six  periods, 
winning  the  decision  with  but  one  dissenting 
voice,  and  that  came  from  the  loser 's  corner. 

The  sporting  pages  commented  that  Wade 
was  indeed  far  gone  when  a  cream-puff  boxer 
like  Mahoney  could  stand  and  fight  with  him, 
toe  to  toe,  and  mourned  the  downfall  of  a  once 
great  two-handed  fighter.  Billy  Wade  took  vio 
lent  issue  with  these  statements. 

*  *  I  wasn  't  in  shape, ' '  said  he.  "I  didn't  half 
train. ' ' 

He  did  not  train  for  his  next  fight  either,  and 
in  this  case  the  sponge  was  thrown  into  the  ring. 

"He  fights  like  an  apple  woman,"  said  the 
critics.  "Two  fast  rounds  and  he  blows  up." 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  Billy  Wade  was  the  joke 
of  the  lightweight  division.  He  had  honest 
friends  who  begged  him  to  retire  while  he  had  a 
shred  of  reputation  left,  but  Billy  shook  his 
head.  He  was  too  stubborn  to  make  a  public 
acknowledgment  of  failure,  and  conceited 
enough  to  believe  that  he  could  win  back  his 
place  as  the  idol  of  the  lightweight  brigade. 
Each  time  he  was  defeated  he  had  a  new  excuse, 
and,  though  he  promised  faithfully  to  train  for 
his  next  opponent,  he  never  did  it.  Training 
was  hard,  dry  work,  and  meant  no  cigars  and 
no  cocktails,  and  Billy  Wade  had  reached  the 
point  where  he  leaned  heavily  upon  stimulants. 

He  quarreled  with  Tacks  McLowrie  over  a 
division  of  the  spoils,  and  they  parted,  Tacks 
hitching  his  wagon  to  a  rising  star  of  the  mid 
dleweight  constellation,  whereupon  the  loyal 

[23] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Reddy  Burke  remarked  that  lie  never  did  like 
that  stiff  McLowrie  nohow,  and  expressed  the 
opinion  that  badly  made  matches  had  been  re 
sponsible  for  all  of  the  trouble  of  the  past  year. 

"I'll  lick  a  few  fellows,  and  then  I'll  get 
going,"  said  Wade. 

"Sure  you  will!"  said  Burke. 

One  morning,  Doc  Phelps,  who  had  just  fin 
ished  treating  a  cauliflower  ear,  looked  up  to 
see  Billy  Wade  in  the  doorway,  with  Eeddy 
Burke  close  behind  him.  The  ex-champion  was 
heavier  than  a  lightweight  has  any  right  to  be, 
and  he  was  puffing  at  a  fat,  oily  cigar. 

"Good  morning,  Doc,"  said  he.  "I  think  I 
met  you  once  over  to  Doyle's.  These  pork-and- 
bean  kids  tell  me  you're  a  bear  when  it  comes  to 
fixing  up  bad  hands.  I  want  you  to  see  if 
you  can  do  anything  with  these.  I've  got  a 
fight  next  month — only  ten  rounds — and  I  want 
you  to  patch  me  up  for  it." 

"All  right,  Billy,"  said  the  doctor.  "Come 
in,  Burke.  Now,  then,  let 's  have  a  look  at  'em. ' ' 

The  ex-champion  removed  his  overcoat, 
tossed  his  gold-headed  cane  into  a  corner,  and 
extended  his  hands.  Phelps  examined  them 
minutely,  whistling  between  his  teeth. 

"Ouch!"  said  Wade,  as  the  doctor  pressed 
hard  upon  the  back  of  his  right  hand. 

* '  Tender,  eh  I  How  in  the  world  do  you  fight 
with  your  hands  bunged  up  like  this?" 

"Well,"  said  Wade,  "I  have  to  pull  a  lot 
of  punches  to  keep  from  hurting  'em,  that's  a 
fact." 

[24] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


"Yeh,"  said  Beddy  Burke,  "that's  why  we 
didn't  stop  the  dago  last  month." 

Phelps  released  Wade's  hands,  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair. 

"I'm  going  to  talk  straight  to  you,  Billy," 
said  he.  "You  want  the  truth,  I  suppose?" 

"Shoot!" 

' l  All  right.  I  'm  going  to  ask  you  a  question : 
Are  you  making  these  cheap  matches  because 
you  need  the  money?" 

"No!"  said  Billy  shortly.  "I  can  live  the 
rest  of  my  life  if  I  never  see  a  boxing  glove.  I 
got  some  dough  laid  away. ' ' 

"Then  what  is  your  .excuse  for  not  quitting! 
Why  are  you  fighting  third-raters  with  your 
hands  in  this  shape?  Don't  you  know  that 
any  tramp  lightweight  in  the  country  can  lick 
you  now  unless  you  drop  him  inside  of  two 
rounds  ?  Why  don 't  you  get  out  of  the  game  ? '  * 

"Say!"  exploded  Eeddy  Burke.  "We  come 
here  to  get  our  hands  fixed  up,  not  to  be  inter 
viewed,  see!" 

Phelps  smiled,  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  ignor 
ing  the  satellite. 

"That's  one  trouble  with  you,  Billy,"  said  he. 
' '  You  Ve  been  letting  people  string  you.  You  'd 
rather  hear  a  lie  than  the  truth  because  it's 
easier  to  listen  to.  Now  I'm  a  doctor,  and 
you've  come  to  me  for  treatment.  Part  of  a 
doctor's  job  is  to  tell  people  the  truth,  whether 
they  like  it  or  not.  The  carpenters  left  a  hole 
over  there  for  people  who  don 't  care  to  listen. '  * 

He  paused  and  beamed  upon  Eeddy. 
[25] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"See  what  you  get  for  horning  in?"  said 
Wade.  ' '  Go  ahead,  Doc.  Get  it  all  out  of  your 
system.  Shut  up,  Reddy!" 

"That's  better,"  said  Phelps.  "Now,  then, 
you  won't  train  any  more ;  you're  full  of  poison, 
your  hands  are  in  terrible  condition,  and  you're 
&  wreck  at  twenty-three  years  of  age.  You've 
got  every  physical  excuse  for  quitting,  and  you 
don't  need  the  money.  Why  do  you  stay  with 
it,  Billy?" 

The  boy  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth«so  that 
it  would  not  interfere  with  a  remarkable  flow  of 
profanity.  , 

"I'll  never  quit  until  I  get  another  wallop  at 
that  stiff  of  a  Brady!  There's  a  guy  that  I'll 
train  for — I  wouldn't  care  if  it  was  a  year!  If 
I  ever  get  him  in  the  ring  again " 

"Leave  it  to  us  what  we'll  do  to  'm!"  said 
Reddy  Burke. 

"Ah!"  said  the  doctor  softly.  "So  that's 
the  bug  under  the  chip,  is  it?  Do  you  really 
mean  what  you  said  about  training  for  a  year  ? ' ' 

"Doc,"  said  Wade  earnestly,  "there  ain't 
anything  I  wouldn't  do  to  get  that  fellow  in 
the  ring  with  me  again.  He  ain't  a  champion 
of  the  world,  and  you  know  it.  You  can  tell  it 
by  the  way  he  picks  the  soft  ones  and  side-steps 
the  real  fighters.  I  can  lick  him,  I  tell  you ! ' ' 

"Not  the  way  you  are  now,"  said  Phelps. 
"Peel  off  that  coat  and  vest;  I'm  going  to  look 
you  over." 

"Yeh,"  said  Reddy  Burke.  "Let  him  take 
a  slant  at  you,  boy.  You're  sound  as  a  nut." 

[26] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


The  physical  examination  was  a  long  one, 
and  when  it  was  over  the  doctor  announced  him 
self  as  satisfied. 

" There's  nothing  organically  wrong  with 
you,"  said  he. 

''What  did  I  tell  you?"  cackled  Eeddy. 
*  *  Sound  as  a  nut ! ' ' 

Phelps  shook  his  head. 

11  Billy,"  said  he,  "you're  about  the  worst 
wreck  of  a  fine  piece  of  fighting  machinery  that 
I  ever  saw — and  I  get  to  look  at  quite  a  few  of 
'em.  You're  twenty-three,  and  you've  been 
fighting  six  years.  By  rights,  you  should  be 
just  beginning,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  you're 
nearer  thirty  than  twenty — physically  I  mean — 
and  you'll  be  forty  in  a  couple  of  years  if  you 
keep  on  at  the  pace  you're  traveling.  You're 
full  of  nicotine  and  alcohol,  you've  got  a  lot  of 
rotten  teeth  in  your  mouth,  you're  clogged  up 
with  soft,  unhealthy  fat,  and  your  hands  aren't 
worth  a  damn  as  fighting  tools.  If  you  had 
deliberately  gone  about  to  destroy  your  physi 
cal  efficiency,  you  couldn't  have  done  a  finer 
job.  As  you  stand  now,  I  wouldn't  give  a 
nickel  for  you. ' ' 

Billy  Wade  rubbed  his  fingers  over  the  back 
of  his  right  hand,  and  there  was  silence  in  the 
room  for  perhaps  fifteen  seconds. 

1  'If  that's  straight  goods,"  said  he,  "there 
ain't  much  more  to  do  but  haul  me  to  the  bone- 
yard.  ' ' 

'  *  Eats ! ' '  said  the  doctor.  "  I  Ve  heard  every 
thing  else  about  you,  Billy,  but  nobody  ever 

[27] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


accused  you  of  being  a  quitter.  All  the  game 
fights  in  the  world  aren't  pulled  off  in  a  ring. 
You  need  to  be  made  over  again  from  the 
ground  up.  It'll  be  the  toughest  battle  of  your 
life,  old  son,  but  the  main  point  is  that  you  can 
win  if  you'll  stay  with  it." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  loss  of  the  cham 
pionship,  Wade  virtually  admitted  retrogres 
sion. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  come  back,  Doc?" 

"I  know  it.  Whether  you  do  or  not  is  a 
matter  that  is  up  to  you.  You'll  have  to  be 
cleaned  out  from  top  to  bottom — all  the  poison 
that  you  are  loaded,up  with  must  be  eliminated. 
Those  hands  must  go  into  plaster  casts,  and 
stay  there  for  a  month  or  six  weeks,  and  then 
we  '11  tackle  the  rebuilding  process.  It  won 't  be 
any  joke,  but  if  you're  as  game  as  I  think  you 
are,  I  can  send  you  back  in  shape  to  flail  the 
everlasting  daylights  out  of  Frankie  Brady — 
yes,  even  a  better  man  than  he  is.  I  agree  with 
you  that  he 's  not  much  of  a  champion.  You  can 
do  this,  or  you  can  take  the  easy  way,  and  go 
on  being  licked  by  every  pork-and-beaner  in  the 
country.  With  your  hands  the  way  they  are 
now,  you  won't  last  more  than  six  months. 
Think  it  over,  Billy.  It's  up  to  you." 

The  ex-champion  studied  the  pattern  of  the 
carpet  for  some  time,  but  at  last  his  head  went 
up,  and  he  thrust  out  his  hand. 

"You've  got  a  customer,  Doc!"  said  he. 

* '  Two  of  'em, ' '  said  Beddy  Burke.  '  *  Because 
[28] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


I'm  with  the  old  champ  at  every  jump  in  the 
road." 

"That's  the  right  spirit,"  said  the  doctor. 
"We  might  as  well  begin  eliminating  poison 
now.  Hand  me  that  cigar  case  of  yours.  You 
won't  have  any  further  use  for  it." 

"Aw,  say!"  pleaded  Wade.  "I've  got  to 
have  my  smoke  after  dinner,  Doc ! ' ' 

' '  Not  after  dinner  or  any  other  time.  If  you 
mean  business,  we  '11  chop  the  tobacco  and  booze 
right  here.  I  want  you  to  get  your  teeth  fixed 
up  first;  you've  got  some  rotten  cavities  there 
that  would  poison  a  dog.  Everything  that  gets 
into  your  body  has  to  go  through  your  mouth, 
so  we'll  begin  the  cleaning-out  process  at  the 
port  of  entry.  When  you  get  the  tartar  off 
your  teeth,  those  spongy  gums  will  harden,  and 

they  won't  bleed  so  easy By  the  way, 

what  do  you  drink,  mostly?" 

"Oh,  anything  that  the  gang  is  drinking," 
said  Wade,  reluctantly  surrendering  his  cigar 
case. 

"Conviviality  is  your  trouble,  eM"  mused 
Phelps.  "In  that  case,  the  farther  you  can  get 
from  the  bright  lights  the  better.  I  know  a 
man  who's  got  a  ranch  about  eighty  miles  from 
here  and  thirty  miles  from  nowhere.  He 's  been 
after  me  to  pay  him  a  visit  and  bring  some 
friends  along.  It  would  be  a  great  place  for 
you  because  you  wouldn't  be  tempted  to  sit  up 
nights  or  fill  yourself  with  booze.  How  does 
the  idea  strike  you?" 

"Fine!"  said  Beddy  Burke.  "Listen  to  me 
[29] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


a  minute,  Billy.  We'll  call  this  ten-round 
fight  off,  see?  Then  we'll  take  to  the  woods 
without  tipping  it  to  a  soul  where  we're  going, 
or  why.  You  can  do  all  this  work  under  cover. ' ' 

''Why  under  cover!"  asked  Phelps. 

''Because,"  said  Eeddy,  "when  we  get  this 
bird  primed  to  fly  again,  the  less  people  know 
about  this  rebuilding  stunt  the  better.  We  can 
get  two  to  one  for  every  dollar  we  want  to  put 
up." 

' '  By  George ! ' '  said  Phelps.  ' '  There 's  some 
thing  in  that ! '  ' 

IV 

"Doc,"  said  Fred  Haynes,  the  proprietor  of 
the  Sundown  Eanch,  "now  that  our  distin 
guished  guests  have  retired,  would  you  mind 
explaining  this  latest  lunacy  of  yours?  Why 
are  you  hooked  up  with  a  dead  one  like  Billy 
Wade?" 

The  men  were  sitting  on  the  veranda  of  the 
ranch  house,  overlooking  a  broad  sweep  of 
California  hills,  sepia  and  silver  in  the  moon 
light.  Close  at  hand  was  the  loom  of  giant 
sycamores,  and  the  intervals  of  silence  were 
filled  with  the  whisper  of  running  water. 

"Great  place  you've  got  here,  Fred,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"Don't  stall,  Doc!  Answer  the  question.  I 
know  that  you  're  a  bug  on  fighters,  but  I  always 
gave  you  credit  for  picking  live  ones.  Why 
Billy  Wade?  He's  been  licked  by  everybody 

[30] 


THE    SPORTING    DOCTOR 


since  he  lost  the  championship.    I  think  I  could 
clean  him  myself." 

"That's  why  I  brought  him  here."  A  touch 
of  seriousness  was  in  Phelps'  usual  bantering 
tone.  "Fred,  this  fellow  is  one  of  the  greatest 
fighting  machines  in  the  world,  gone  all  to  smash 
through  ignorance  and  neglect.  He's  not 
fought  out,  and  he 's  not  burned  out  like  so  many 
of  'em;  but  his  hands  are  in  awful  shape  and 
he's  full  of  poison.  He  thinks  he  can  come 
back " 

*  *  They  all  do, ' '  grunted  Haynes. 

"He  thinks  he  can  come  back,"  repeated 
Phelps  patiently,  "and  I'm  going  to  help  him. 
To-morrow  I  'm  going  to  give  him  a  light  anaes 
thetic,  reduce  those  dislocations,  force  the  joints 
back  into  position,  and  put  both  hands  in  plaster 
casts.  Then  I'm  going  to  start  in  to  get  rid 
of  the  poisons  and  the  broken-down  tissues  by 
a  general  stimulation  of  the  eliminative  organs. 
I'll  clean  out  his  skin  with  protracted  warm 
baths,  and  I'll  flush  him  with  good,  clean  drink 
ing  water.  I  '11  reduce  the  unhealthy  fat  around 
the  abdominal  viscera  and  heart  and  then " 

"Rave  on,  little  one,  rave  on,"  said  Haynes 
soothingly. 

"Light  exercise  will  burn  up  that  fat,"  re 
peated  Phelps,  "and  he  can  be  doing  that  while 
his  hands  are  in  the  casts.  I'll  put  him  on  a 
properly  balanced  diet — all  energy-producing 
foods  and  no  sugars  or  starches ;  he  '11  sleep  in 
the  open  air  and  go  to  bed  with  the  chick 
ens " 

[31] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


"I've  got  a  tintype  of  him  doing  it,"  said 
Haynes.  "Billy  Wade  won't  stay  here  ten 
days.  He's  a  city  boy;  I  know  the  type.  His 
feet  will  get  to  itching  for  sidewalks,  and  he'll 
miss  the  pink  sporting  extras.  The  simple  life 
will  bore  him  stiff,  and  he'll  beat  it.  Bet  you 
fifty  dollars  he  doesn't  last  two  weeks!" 

"I'll  take  that  bet,"  said  Phelps. 

"But  what's  the  idea?  What's  it  all  for? 
Are  you  getting  a  chunk  of  money  from  him?" 

' '  Come  to  think  of  it, ' '  said  the  doctor,  * '  I  am 
entitled  to  a  fee  for  this.  There  isn't  any  ar 
rangement  about  money,  though. ' ' 

"Well,  then,  what  have  you  got  up  your 
sleeve  ? ' '  persisted  Haynes.  ' '  You  're  not  doing 
this  out  of  charity,  or  because  you  think  you 
owe  something  to  your  profession." 

"No-o,"  said  Phelps.  "You  might  say  I'm 
taking  it  on  purely  as  a  sporting  proposition. 
It's  this  way:  Billy  wants  to  get  another  crack 
at  Frankie  Brady.  Frankie  isn  't  a  great  light 
weight  by  any  manner  of  means,  but  he's  the 
champion  of  the  world  just  the  same.  He's 
such  a  poor  fighter  that  I  bet  eight  hundred  on 
Wade  when  they  met  last  year.  I  thought 
Billy's  stamina  would  carry  him  through.  You 
remember  what  a  ripping,  slashing  little  devil 
he  used  to  be?  He  won  all  his  fights  because 
he  could  set  a  terrific  pace  and  hold  it.  That's 
stamina — energy.  That's  what  Billy  has  lost, 
and,  without  it,  anybody  can  whip  him.  The 
general  opinion  is  that  when  a  man's  stamina 
goes  back  on  him,  he 's  through  for  good.  I  be- 

[32] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


lieve  that  theory  is  wrong — in  this  case,  at  least. 
Billy  is  only  a  kid  yet,  and  if  I  can  get  him 
cleaned  out  and  trained  and  his  hands  in  shape 
so  that  he  can  hit  with  'em  again,  I'll  guarantee 
that  he'll  lick  all  the  Frankie  Bradys  that  you 
can  pile  into  a  ten-acre  lot ! " 

"Oho!"  said  Haynes.  "I'm  on,  Doc.  You're 
going  to  make  a  clean-up  in  the  betting ! ' ' 

Phelps'  round  face  flushed  slightly. 

"Not  that,  either,"  said  he,  "though  it  can 
Jbe  done,  Fred.  I  want  to  make  this  boy  over 
again — physically.  In  a  way,  I've  taken  a  lik 
ing  to  him.  He 's  too  fine  a  piece  of  machinery 
to  be  allowed  to  go  to  smash.  I'm  going  to 
reform  him — that's  it!  Laugh  and  show  your 
ignorance !  It  can  be  done,  as  sure  as  you  live. ' ' 

"I  wasn't  laughing  at  that,"  chuckled 
Haynes ;  "only  it  strikes  me  that  you're  a  beau 
tiful  specimen  to  be  preaching  physical  regen 
eration  to  athletes — a  cigarette-smoking,  booze- 
fighting  ball  of  butter  like  you  are!  'Do  as  I 
say,  but  not  as  I  do,'  eh?" 

"Huh!"  snorted  Phelps,  slightly  nettled, 
for  the  shot  had  gone  home.  "I  don't  have  to 
depend  upon  my  physical  condition  to  make  a 
living,  thank  the  Lord." 

"No,"  said  Haynes,  "and  a  mighty  good 
thing  for  you.  When  you  get  to  handing  this 
boy  a  sermon  on  the  evils  of  rum  and  tobacco, 
he's  liable  to  come  back  at  you  with  the  line, 
'Physician,  heal  thyself.'  I  would,  if  I  were 
in  his  place.  You're  smoking  too  many  of  those 

[33] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


rotten   Turkish   cigarettes,   Doc.     They'll   get 
you.  '  ' 

Oh,   you   go  to   the   devil!"   said  Phelps. 
Let's  have  one  more  high.  ball  and  go  to  bed." 


.     " 
" 


It  is  no  simple  matter  to  uproot  one  habit 
overnight,  but  to  alter  the  whole  current  of  a 
life  is  really  a  serious  undertaking,  and  one  to 
be  approached  with  extreme  caution. 

For  several  years,  Billy  Wade  had  done  ex 
actly  as  he  pleased,  with  no  one  to  offer  advice 
or  issue  orders.  Tacks  McLowrie  had  endeav 
ored  to  "handle"  him,  after  the  crude  fashion 
of  managers,  but  had  retired  after  colliding 
with  a  will  stronger  than  his  own.  Softened 
by  indulgence  and  spoiled  by  an  overdose  of  his 
own  way  in  everything,  Billy  Wade  entered 
upon  the  regenerating  process  with  no  appre-1 
ciation  of  the  hardships  entailed. 

At  first  the  novelty  of  the  thing  interested 
him,  but  at  the  end  of  the  third  day  the  plaster 
casts  upon  his  hands  became  irksome,  the  long 
days  and  the  dark,  quiet  nights  bore  heavily 
upon  his  nerves,  and  he  missed  his  cigars  and 
cocktails  more  than  he  would  have  thought  pos- 
3ible.  At  every  turn,  he  was  met  by  a  fattish, 
good-natured  taskmaster,  who  regulated  his  life 
to  the  last  detail  and  would  not  compromise  by 
so  much  as  an  inch. 

"Nothing  ever  happens  here  but  just  morn 
ing  and  night,"  complained  the  victim,  sure  of 
one  faithful  ear  into  which  he  could  pour  his 
troubles.  "The  Doc  won't  let  me  eat  anything 

[34] 


THE   SPORTING  DOCTOR 


but  the  things  I  don't  want,  and  he's  got  my 
hands  sewed  up  in  a  pair  of  stone  gloves  so 
that  I  can't  even  deal  a  deck  of  cards.  If  he 
don't  loosen  up  on  me  a  little  bit,  I'm  going 
to  beat  it  back  to  town." 

"Aw,  stick  a  while  longer,"  advised  Eeddy 
Burke.  ' l  All  the  boys  that  got  their  hands  fixed 
up  had  to  wear  them  things.  I  ain't  stuck  on 
associating  with  cows  and  chickens  myself,  but 
I'd  give  the  sawbones  a  chance  if  I  was  you." 

"I  think  I  was  a  sucker  to  pass  up  that  Johan- 
sen  for  ten  rounds, ' '  said  Wade.  ' '  There 's  one 
guy  I  can  lick. ' ' 

*  *  And  what  would  it  get  you  ? ' '  argued  Eeddy. 
"Johansen  is  only  a  pork-and-beaner.  Brady 
is  the  bird  we  're  after.  You  better  stick,  Billy. 
I  think  this  sawbones  knows  what  he's  doing." 

"I'll  stay  till  Monday,"  said  Wade.  "This 
place  has  got  my  goat. ' ' 

On  Sunday,  a  neighboring  Mexican  brought 
the  mail  from  the  nearest  town.  The  three  vis 
itors  hurled  themselves  hungrily  upon  the 
packet  of  newspapers.  The  flaring  headlines 
on  the  sporting  pages,  the  baseball  scores,  the 
week-old  news  added  the  finishing  touch  to  Billy 
Wade's  feeling  of  isolation  from  the  world. 

"I've  had  enough  of  this,"  said  he  to  Eeddy. 
"I'm  going  to  tell  the  Doc  to-night.  He'll  be 
sore,  but  if  I  pay  his  bill  that  ought  to  satisfy 
him.  I'd  go  off  my  nut  if  I  had  to  stay  in 
this  place  another  week." 

Doc  Phelps  saw  more  through  his  thick 
glasses  than  most  people  imagined.  He  had 

[35] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


observed  Wade 's  growing  nervousness,  his  sud 
den  flashes  of  irritation,  and  his  long  periods 
of  sullen  quiet,  and  when  the  fighter  came  to 
him  after  supper,  plainly  feeling  for  an  opening, 
the  doctor  was  prepared. 

"There's  a  little  article  here  that  I  want  to 
read  to  you,"  said  he.  "Do  you  know  Bill 
Hortont" 

"Uncle  Bill?"  said  Wade.  "I  should  say  I 
do !  He 's  one  of  my  best  friends.  There 's  one 
sporting  writer  that  knows  the  game  from  top 
to  bottom.  When  Uncle  Bill  says  a  thing  is  so, 
you  can  go  put  a  bet  on  it. ' ' 

"Can  you?"  asked  the  doctor.  "Then  listen 
to  this,"  and  he  began  to  read  aloud.  This  was 
the  opening  paragraph : 

"Billy  Wade  has  canceled  his  date  with  Johansen,  and  dis 
appeared  from  his  usual  haunts,  leaving  no  address  behind 
him.  He  made  no  explanation  or  excuse  and  none  was  neces 
sary.  In  all  probability,  this  marks  the  passing  of  one  of  the 
great  figures  of  the  Queensbury  world.  In  the  history  of  box 
ing,  there  has  never  been  a  more  sudden  or  complete  downfall 
of  a  champion.  For  nearly  a  year  Wade's  friends  have  been 
trying  to  persuade  him  to  retire,  but  with  the  stubbornness 
which  always  characterized  him,  Billy  refused  to  listen.  It  is 
another  victory  for  wine,  women,  and  song,  but  never  has  this 
dangerous  combination  wrought  more  havoc  than  in  the  case 
of  the  former  lightweight  champion  of  the  world.  His  friends 
believe  that  he  has  at  last  come  to  a  realization  of  his  physical 
condition,  and  given  up  hope  of  regaining  the  stamina  which 
won  him  a  high  place  in  the  affections  of  the  sporting  popula 
tion.  His  career  should  serve  as  a  warning  to  all  ambitious 
young  men  who  are  tempted  to  try  their  speed  on  the  primrose 
path." 

Doctor  Phelps  paused,  and  glanced  at  Wade. 
"Did  Uncle  Bill  say  that— honest ?"  asked 
the  fighter. 

[36] 


THE    SPORTING    DUOTOK 


The  doctor  passed  him  the  paper,  and  Wade 
glanced  at  the  headlines  and  verified  the  signa 
ture. 

"I  thought  he  was  my  friend!"  said  he  bit 
terly.  *  *  It  just  goes  to  show  that  they  all  take 
a  kick  at  you  when  you're  down!" 

" Billy,"  said  Phelps,  "your  real  friends  are 
the  men  who  tell  you  the  truth,  every  time. 
Uncle  Bill  has  put  your  case  in  a  nutshell. 
You  've  gone  a  long  way  down  the  wrong  side  of 
the  hill,  but  if  you're  game  and  patient  and  will 
ing  to  work,  you  can  get  back  to  the  top  again. 
You're  tired  of  this  place,  and  you  want  to  go 
back  to  town.  You  want  to  smoke  your  head 
off,  and  take  a  drink  once  in  a  while.  Your  will 
power  is  just  as  weak  as  your  body.  Now  it's 
up  to  you.  Are  you  willing  to  stand  the  gaff 
and  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  that  this  article 
is  all  wrong,  or  shall  we  pack  up  and  go  back 
to  the  bright  lights  and  let  everybody  say,  'I 
told  you  so?'  " 

"It  sounds  easy,"  was  the  sulky  response, 
"but  I  notice  that  you  take  a  drink  whenever 
you  want  one,  and  youVe  always  got  a  cigar 
ette  in  your  mouth.  You  talk  to  me  about  being 
game  and  standing  the  gaff!  Why,  Doc,  you 
don't  know  what  it's  like  to  want  to  take  a  drink 
or  a  smoke  and  not  do  it!" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
rustling  of  the  newspaper  as  Billy  twisted  it  in 
his  fingers.  Somewhere  near  at  hand,  a  rock 
ing-chair  ceased  creaking. 

1  *  That  may  be  true, ' '  said  Phelps  slowly,  "but 
[37] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


I'm  not  a  fighter,  and  you  are.  You  make  a  liv 
ing  by  keeping  yourself  in  good  physical  con 
dition;  I  make  mine  by  keeping  other  folks  in 
shape." 

"What  difference  does  that  make!  Nicotine 
is  a  deadly  poison ;  you  told  me  so,  but  there 's 
more  nicotine  in  those  coffin  nails  that  you  smoke 
than  in  cigars.  Booze  will  play  hell  with  my 
liver  and  kidneys,  but  you  drink  twice  as  much 
as  I  ever  did.  It's  all  a  question  of  will  power, 
you  say,  and  easy  if  you  make  up  your  mind. 
Seems  to  me,  if  it's  such  a  cinch,  you'd  quit, 
yourself!" 

Silence  followed  this  outburst,  and  after  a 
time  Phelps  heard  a  low  chuckle.  It  proceeded 
from  an  open  window,  making  it  plain  that  Fred 
Haynes  was  an  invisible  listener. 

Shall  we  say  that  the  words  of  an  angry  boy 
cut  through  the  fat,  and  reached  Arthur  Phelps ' 
soul!  Shall  we  say  that  he  was  shamed  into  a 
desire  to  rid  himself  of  two  bad  habits,  in  order 
that  he  might  set  a  right  example  to  a  patient? 
No ;  this  is  not  a  Sunday-school  tract.  The  truth 
is  often  nearly  as  good  as  a  lie.  It  was  Haynes' 
chuckle  that  did  the  work.  It  reminded  Doc 
Phelps  of  the  fifty-dollar  bet,  and  he  knew  that 
if  Billy  Wade  went  back  to  town  Haynes  would 
laugh  out  loud.  So  he  spoke  up  immediately. 

"Look  here,  Billy,"  said  the  doctor,  "you're 
a  sport  and  I'm  a  sport,  and  we  like  to  go 
through  with  things  when  we  start  'em,  don't 
we  ?  All  right.  Now  I  want  to  see  you  a  cham 
pion  again,  and  I  can  make  you  one  if  you'll 

[38] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


stick.  You  try  it  for  two  more  weeks,  and 
I'll  agree  to  take  this  cleaning-out  process  with 
you,  just  to  show  you  how  easy  it  is.  No  cigar 
ettes,  and  no  booze.  Are  you  with  me?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

11  Of  course, "  added  Phelps  shrewdly,  "if 
you're  willing  to  admit  that  Uncle  Bill's  dope  is 
correct  and  that  you  can't  come  back,  and  you're 
going  to  quit  without  making  a  fight,  that's  an 
other  matter.  Some  other  fellow  will  lick 
Brady." 

"  Oh,  rats ! "  said  Billy  Wade.  ' '  I  '11  stick  for 
two  weeks  more,  but  I  wish  I  had  these  things 
off  my  hands!" 

Half  an  hour  later,  Fred  Haynes  came  out  on 
the  porch,  and  found  the  doctor  sitting  there 
alone,  puffing  reflectively  at  a  cigarette. 

"Throw  that  thing  away!"  commanded 
Haynes  sternly.  "That's  a  nice  way  to  swear 
off.  You  talked  me  out  of  winning  a  fifty-dollar 
bet,  but  I'm  going  to  see  to  it  that  you  live  up 
to  your  side  of  the  contract.  Hand  over  the  rest 
of  those  coffin  nails." 

* ' By  George ! ' '  ejaculated  Phelps.  "Hit  one 
without  thinking.  Force  of  habit." 

"Your  will  power  is  just  as  weak  as  your 
body,"  quoted  Haynes.  "You've  gone  a  long 
way  down  the  wrong  side  of  the  hill,  Doc,  but 
if  you're  game  and  patient " 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  snapped  Phelps. 

"At  that,"  said  his  host,  "I  think  you'll  find 
it  worth  while.  And  if  you  could  get  rid  of  some 
of  that  unhealthy  fat — light  exercise  will  burn 

[39] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


it  up,  Doc — you  wouldn't  look  so  much  like  a 
Brownie.  Not  sore,  are  you?  Well,  good 
night." 


For  the  first  three  days  of  the  second  week, 
the  ranch  house  was  anything  but  a  pleas 
ant  habitation.  One  of  the  long  winter  rains 
set  in,  and  the  "inmates,"  as  Haynes  persisted 
in  calling  his  guests,  were  cooped  up  indoors 
with  their  unhappiness. 

Billy  Wade  continued  to  fret  about  the  plas 
ter  casts.  He  also  complained  bitterly  of  the 
food,  and  attributed  his  sleepless  nights  to  the 
hardness  of  his  bed — which  was  the  best  one 
in  the  house.  He  took  a  certain  malicious  sat 
isfaction  in  the  misery  of  Doc  Phelps,  who  was 
suffering  acutely  from  nerves  and  a  physical 
craving  for  the  things  which  he  had  so  lightly 
renounced.  Eeddy  Burke  mooned  about  the 
premises  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  and  even 
Haynes  was  affected  by  the  atmosphere  of 
gloom.  There  were  times  when  a  carelessly 
dropped  remark  produced  an  effect  not  unlike 
that  which  follows  the  tossing  of  a  piece  of  raw 
meat  into  a  bear  pit. 

"It's  a  swell  little  party,  Doc,"  said  Haynes, 
on  the  third  night,  after  Wade  and  Burke  had 
retired.  "Did  you  hear  what  your  patient  said 
about  the  grub?  Considering  that  this  isn't  a 
hotel,  and  that  he  isn't  being  charged  anything 
for  it " 

Doc  Phelps,  who  was  sitting  by  the  open  fire 
[40] 


THE   SPOUTING  DOCTOR 


with  his  head  in  his  hands,  grunted,  but  made 
no  other  comment. 

"Old  man  Job  got  too  much  credit,**  mused 
Haynes. 

"Eh— what's  that!" 

1 '  They  say  Job  was  a  patient  man,"  explained 
Haynes;  "but  in  my  opinion  Noah  had  him 
skinned  to  death.  Be  a  good  fellow,  Doc,  and 
ask  me  why." 

"I'll  bite,"  said  Phelps  wearily.  "What's 
the  answer,  Mister  Bones?" 

"Well,  that  time  when  it  rained  so  long, 
wasn't  Noah  shut  up  in  the  water  wagon  with  a 
lot  of  hyenas  and  things,  and  wasn't  one  of  his 
sons  a  drinking  man?  I'm  for  the  fellow  who 
said  that  Ham  never  should  have  been  let  into 
the  ark!" 

The  doctor  grinned  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I'm  sorry,  Fred,"  said  he,  "but  this  period 
of  mental  depression  is  part  of  the  cure.  I've 
started  it,  and  I'm  going  through.  It  won't  last 
much  longer." 

1 '  Bully  for  you,  old  horse ! ' '  said  Haynes.  ' '  I 
don't  care  a  whole  lot  for  this  fighter  of  yours, 
Doc,  but  if  this  treatment  straightens  you  up, 
I  guess  I  can  put  up  with  the  hyenas  a  few  days 
more." 

The  next  morning  the  sun  came  out,  and  the 
sufferers  crept  into  the  open.  There  is  no  tonio 
like  clean  California  air,  washed  by  a  long  rain. 
Eeddy  Burke  pranced  like  a  colt. 

"Come  on!"  he  challenged.  "Let's  take  a 
hike  over  the  hills!" 

[41] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Go  on,  Billy,  it's  what  you  need,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"I  will  if  you'll  go,  too,"  said  Wade. 

It  was  a  tired,  sweaty  trio  which  returned  at 
noon,  but  peace  had  been  declared  somewhere  on 
the  road,  and  there  was  no  squabbling  over  the 
lunch  table.  The  doctor  complained  of  being 
stiff  and  sore — and  small  wonder,  for  they  had 
walked  him  ten  miles  at  a  brisk  pace ! — so  Reddy 
Burke,  who  knew  all  the  tricks  of  the  training 
camp,  gave  him  an  alcohol  rub,  after  which  the 
doctor  fell  asleep  in  the  hammock.  That  night 
Billy  Wade  slept  ten  hours  without  turning  over 
in  bed,  and  even  Phelps  awoke  with  a  breakfast 
appetite — something  which  he  had  not  known 
in  years.  The  turning  point  had  been  reached. 

"Now,  Billy,"  said  the  doctor,  "we'll  begin 
taking  off  that  fat.  Road  work  in  the  morning, 
shadow  boxing  and  rope  skipping  in  the  after 
noon.  I  want  you  to  get  up  a  good  sweat  twice 
a  day,  and  I  think  I'll  do  some  sweating  my 
self.  I  sleep  better  when  I  'm  tired. ' ' 

There  ensued  the  regular  routine  of  light 
training,  and  at  the  end  of  ten  days  Haynes  had 
three  clear-eyed,  sun-burned,  and  ravenous 
boarders,  who  ate  everything  in  sight  three 
times  a  day  and  yawned  shamelessly  over  the 
supper  table. 

' '  Say,  why  can 't  you  fellows  keep  awake  T  "  he 
complained.    "Doc,  I  hope  I  may  choke  if  you 
haven't  got  a  jaw-bone,  after  all!    I  thought  it- 
was  only  a  jowl  and  a  dewlap.    The  fat  is  melt 
ing  off  you  in  streams." 

[42] 


THE   SPORTING  DOCTOE 


"Yes,  and  maybe  I  don't  feel  better  for  it!" 
crowed  Phelps,  passing  his  fingers  along  the 
angle  of  his  jaw. 

"Yeh,"  said  Eeddy,  "keep  following  us  on 
the  road,  Doc,  and  we'll  make  a  featherweight 
of  you.  I'm  feeling  a  little  bit  of  all  right  my 
self  these  days.  When  we  start  the  boxing,  I'll 
give  the  old  champ  here  an  awful  ride.  Hey, 
Billy,  do  you  remember  that  day  at  Sheehan's 
place  when  I  dropped  you  with  a  right  hook!" 

"You  bet!"  said  Wade. 

"I  always  had  a  notion,"  continued  Beddy, 
"that  with  just  us  two  in  a  barn  somewhere,  I 
could  lick  you.  Somehow  I  never  could  fight 
in  public,  but  I'm  a  wolf  in  private.  Why  is 
that,  Doc?" 

' '  I  don 't  know.  Jack  Jeffries  couldn  't  fight  in 
a  ring,  but  he  used  to  give  Jim  the  toughest  bat 
tles  of  his  life." 

1 '  Maybe  it  comes  from  knowing  a  guy  and  not 
being  afraid  of  him,"  said  Eeddy.  "Hurry  up 
and  get  those  things  off  Billy's  hands.  I  want 
to  give  him  a  trimming." 

"We'll  take  the  casts  off  when  the  soreness 
is  all  gone,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  you  needn't 
worry  about  the  fighting.  You'll  get  enough  of 
it,  I  promise  you.  We're  not  going  to  gamble 
on  Billy's  condition;  we're  going  to  know  what 
he  can  do." 

"What  are  you  figuring  on?"  asked  Haynes. 
"A  real  fight  is  the  only  test." 

"We'll  give  him  three  real  fights,"  said  the 
doctor.  * '  First,  we  '11  train  him  for  a  six-round 

[43] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


go,  and  then  we  '11  let  him  rest  for  a  few  weeks. 
Then  we  '11  shape  him  up  for  ten  rounds,  and  the 
last  time  we'll  send  him  to  a  finish." 

"  To  a  finish ! "  said  Eeddy.    ' '  With  me  ? " 

"With  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

Billy  Wade  rose  and  side-stepped  about  the 
room,  swinging  his  bandaged  hands  in  short, 
vicious  circles  and  hooks. 

"You'd  better  get  ready,  kid,"  chuckled  the 
ex-champion,  "because  I'm  going  to  make  you 
think  a  grizzly  bear  is  after  you ! ' ' 

' '  Huh ! ' '  sneered  Burke.  ' '  You  're  the  fellow 
that  had  better  be  in  shape  I" 

VI 

Billy  Wade's  mysterious  disappearance  was 
a  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  athletic  world,  and 
,whenever  material  ran  short,  the  sporting  writ 
ers  fell  back  upon  it  as  a  topic,  and  all  sorts  of 
wild  guesses  and  rumors  found  their  way  into 
print.  Wade  was  in  a  sanitarium;  Wade  was 
married,  and  living  upon  a  farm  in  Wisconsin; 
Wade  was  in  Australia ;  Wade  was  dead. 

Since  everybody's  guess  is  nobody's  certain 
ty,  the  real  truth  was  not  even  suspected,  much 
less  revealed.  Nobody  hinted  at  his  "coming 
back";  everybody  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
former  champion  had  gone  the  way  of  all  fight 
ing  flesh.  Billy  Wade  slipped  into  the  past 
tense,  and  after  six  months  he  was  no  more  than 
a  memory.  Tacks  McLowrie's  middleweight 
was  slashing  his  way  to  a  title,  a  new  white  hope 

[44] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


had  been  discovered,  and  not  yet  exposed  as 
hopeless,  and  attention  was  diverted  from  the 
lightweight  division.  Frankie  Brady  was  on 
tour  with  a  burlesque  troupe,  and,  unless  ru 
mor  wronged  him,  more  interested  in  a  certain 
strawberry-blond  actress  than  in  risking  his 
crown  against  any  worthy  opponent. 

Joseph  Porsano,  a  shrewd  young  man  who 
managed  a  "club"  and  promoted  boxing  con 
tests,  received  a  letter  one  day  which  caused  him 
to  rub  his  nose  thoughtfully  for  the  better  part 
of  half  an  hour,  during  which  time  he  read  the 
letter  again.  Then  he  closed  his  desk,  packed 
his  valise,  and  departed  from  the  city.  The  end 
of  Porsano 's  railroad  journey  was  a  small  town 
in  an  interior  county,  where  a  trim,  brown  young 
man  with  eyeglasses  was  waiting  on  the  depot 
platform. 

"Hello,  Doc!"  said  Porsano.  "You're  look 
ing  fine.  I  wouldn't  have  known  you.  Where's 
the  front  porch  and  the  double  chin?" 

"Gone,"  said  Phelps. 

* '  You  look  as  if  you  might  be  this  mysterious 
lightweight  you're  trying  to  put  over  on  me. 
Where  do  we  go  from  here?" 
1     "Jump  in  the  runabout,"  said  the  doctor, 
"and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  as  we  go  along." 

They  were  well  into  the  open  country  before 
Porsano  ^egan  to  ask  questions. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  the  promoter,  "who 
is  this  kid?    Has  he  ever  done  any  real  fight 
ing — with  good  ones,  I  mean?" 
•     "Some,"  said  Phelps.     "I  didn't  tell  you 

[45] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


who  he  is  because  I  know  how  strong  you  fel 
lows  are  for  publicity,  and  we're  under  cover 
with  our  man.  It 's  Billy  Wade. ' ' 

"The  devil  you  say!"  ejaculated  the  astound 
ed  Porsano.  "Billy  Wade!  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  he 's  been  here  all  the  time  f ' ' 

"Ever  since  he  dropped  out  of  sight." 

"The  old  stuff,  eh?  He's  trying  to  come 
back?" 

1  i  Not  trying,  Joe.    He 's  done  it. ' ' 

The  promoter  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  fool  yourself,  Doc.  A  beaten  cham 
pion  never  comes  back.  The  last  time  I  saw 
Billy  Wade  fight,  a  bantamweight  could  have 
licked  him.  No,  Doc ;  they  never  come  back. ' ' 

"They  never  went  at  it  the  right  way,"  ar 
gued  the  doctor.  "Joe,  I've  taken  that  boy  all 
apart  and  put  him  together  again.  You  remem 
ber  how  bad  his  hands  were  ?  I  put  'em  in  plas 
ter  casts  for  five  weeks,  and  now  you  can't  tell 
that  there  was  ever  anything  wrong  with  them. 
He  hasn't  had  a  drink  in  seven  months — or  a 
cigar.  He 's  been  working  every  day  and  going 
to  bed  at  nine  o'clock.  If  ever  a  fighter  had  a 
systematic  and  scientific  renovating,  Wade 's  the 
boy.  They  never  come  back,  eh?  Well,  wait 
till  you  see  him;  that's  all." 

"You  can't  tell  anything  by  looking  at  'em," 
said  Porsano.  "I've  seen  forty  of  'em.  They 
look  all  right,  and  they  train  all  right,  but  when 
you  get  these  broken-down  fighters  into  the  ring 
they  blow  up.  It's  nerves  as  much  as  anything 
else.  A  battle  shows  'em  up. ' ' 

[46] 


THE    SPOETING   DOCTOR 


"  That's  why  you're  here,"  said  Phelps.  "I'm 
not  going  to  ask  you  to  take  my  word  for  any 
thing.  Remember  Reddy  Burke?" 

The  promoter  nodded. 

< « One  tough  little  rat, ' '  said  he.  * '  If  he  'd  fight 
in  the  ring  like  he  fights  Wade  in  the  training 
quarters,  he'd  be  a  top-notcher. " 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "he  fights  Wade  to 
a  finish  to-morrow.  They've  already  gone  six 
and  ten  rounds,  and  Billy  trained  for  each  go 
just  the  same  as  for  a  real  battle.  He  wore 
eight-ounce  gloves  for  the  last  one  because  we 
couldn't  take  a  chance  on  hurting  his  hands; 
but  to-morrow  the  gloves  will  be  regulation 
size,  and  it  will  be  the  toughest  fight  you  ever 
saw  in  your  life.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  any 
more;  keep  your  eyes  open  and  use  your  own 
judgment. ' ' 

' '  It  listens  well, ' '  grinned  Porsano.  * '  Seeing 
js  believing  with  me,  and  I'm  getting  so  now 
that  I  knock  off  about  fifty  per  cent  for  eye 
trouble.  What's  your  plan?  Who  do  you  want 
to  spring  him  on?" 

"Frankie  Brady." 

"You  say  it  easy,  Doc.  There's  a  lot  of  good 
lightweights  who  want  that  four-flusher.  Bo 
Brooks  won't  make  a  match  unless  he  has  all 
the  best  of  it — money  and  every  other  way — and 
Frankie  won't  fight  anybody  but  a  dead  one." 

"That's  the  reason  he'll  jump  at  Billy,"  said 
the  doctor.  ' '  So  far  as  the  money  is  concerned, 
we  should  worry?  They  can  cut  it  any  way  they 
like  or  they  can  have  the  whole  works.  We'd 

[47] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


be  tickled  to  death  to  make  it  winner  take  all, 
but  I  suppose  Brooks  will  insist  on  a  long  end, 
win,  lose,  or  draw.  If  Billy  Wade  could  go 
back  four  years  and  fight  the  way  he  did  when 
he  was  licking  such  men  as  Buckskin  Kelly,  Lew 
Peters,  and  the  Tonopah  Kid,  how  long  would 
Frankie  Brady  last  with  him?" 

''About  as  long  as  a  cigarette,"  said  Por- 
sano. 

"You  think  you  know  something  about  a 
fighter,  Joe?  You  can  tell  when  a  man's  in 
shape?  Fair  enough.  I'm  going  to  put  you  in 
Reddy  Burke 's  corner  to-morrow  afternoon, 
and  he'll  be  under  your  orders.  He'll  fight  to 
instructions,  and  I  want  you  to  make  him  lick 
this  poor  old  has-been — if  he  can.  You  can  hold 
Reddy  back  and  make  a  long  fight  of  it,  or  you 
can  send  him  in  to  mix — use  your  own  judg 
ment.  You've  got  a  good  little  fighter  in  your 
corner;  see  what  you  can  do  to  my  man.  To 
morrow  night,  if  you  can't  see  a  way  to  win  a 
pot  of  money  at  two  to  one,  I'll  send  you  to  an 
oculist.  Tie  on  your  hat,  Joe,  because  I  'm  going 
to  step  on  this  old  boat  and  find  out  if  she  can 
still  do  sixty  miles  an  hour. ' ' 

VII 

The  final  test  had  none  of  the  earmarks  of 
a  festival;  every  man  who  was  present  was 
there  on  business.  The  only  witnesses  were 
Haynes,  referee;  Phelps,  chief  second  and  ad 
viser  in  Wade's  corner;  Porsano,  ditto  in 

[48] 


THE   SPORTING  DOCTOR 


Burke 's  corner,  and  Don  Felipe  Ortega,  present 
by  special  favor  in  the  capacity  of  timekeeper. 

"Yon  know,  Doc,"  confessed  Porsano,  as  the 
quiet  group  moved  from  the  house  toward  the 
ring,  which  was  pitched  behind  the  barn,  "yes 
terday  I  thought  this  fight  to  a  finish  might  be 
a  hippodrome.  I've  been  watching  Wade  and 
Burke,  and  they're  both  as  nervous  as  cats.  The 
way  they  act,  you'd  think  they  were  going  to 
fight  a  duel."  ' 

*  *  Yes,  "said  the  doctor.  * '  I  didn  't  sleep  much 
last  night — thinking  about  it.  We  've  all  worked 
hard  to  make  this  boy  over  again.  We  feel  cer 
tain  that  he's  right,  Joe,  but  you  never  know 
how  much  stamina  is  in  a  man  until  you  pump 
it  all  out.  At  ten  rounds,  he  fought  like  a  wild 
cat ;  to-day  he  may  have  to  go  twenty  or  thirty, 
and  he's  against  a  tough  game.  Eeddy  has 
been  with  him  four  years,  and  Billy  has  never 
yet  dropped  him  for  the  full  count.  If  he  passes 
this  test,  we  can  send  him  against  anybody  and 
feel  certain  of  him." 

"I  see  you  haven't  got  any  towel  swingers," 
said  Porsano. 

"No,"  said  Phelps.  "Many  a  fighter  is 
mauled  and  manhandled  to  death  in  his  own 
corner  by  a  lot  of  numskulls  who  won't  give 
him  a  chance  to  breathe.  A  tired  man  wants  air 
— all  the  air  he  can  get.  A  minute  of  relaxation 
and  deep  breathing  does  him  more  good  than 
all  the  rubbing  and  kneading  and  slapping  that 
you  can  give  him." 

The  customs  of  the  ring  were  observed,  even 
[49] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


to  the  weighing  in,  and  Joe  Porsano,  really  an 
excellent  judge  of  physical  fitness,  opened  his 
eyes  wide  as  the  bath  robe  slipped  from  Wade's 
shoulders. 

The  slight  roll  of  fat  about  the  waist  had  dis 
appeared,  and  the  frontal  overhang  had  given 
way  to  horizontal  ridges  of  muscle.  Between  the 
neck  and  the  knees  Wade  did  not  carry  a  spare 
ounce ;  to  look  at  him  was  to  get  the  impression 
of  a  machine  built  for  speed  and  endurance  and 
then  stripped' to  the  running  gear.  The  greatest 
change  of  all  was  in  the  boy's  face.  There  was 
no  sullenness  in  the  clear  eyes,  nor  about  the 
mouth;  every  feature  seemed  sharpened  and 
refined,  leaving  no  trace  of  the  puffy,  pasty  ex- 
champion  of  the  year  before. 

"One  thirty-one!"  exclaimed  Porsano,  look 
ing  at  the  bar.  "  YouVe  got  him  down  too  fine, 
haven't  you?" 

"Naw,  we  ain't!"  said  Eeddy  Burke.  "That's 
his  fightin'  notch,  see?  Load  him  up  with  more 
weight  than  he  needs,  and  he  'd  have  to  biu;n  it 
off  in  a  fight.  It's  them  burned-up  and  broken- 
down  tissues  what  clogs  a  guy's  blood  and 
makes  him  slow  down.  We  ain't  carryin'  no  ex 
cess  fuel." 

"Where  do  you  get  that  stuff?"  asked  the 
promoter,  smiling. 

"From  the  Doc,"  said  Eeddy.  "Believe  me, 
that  feller  knows  something  about  training.  I 
always  had  a  notion  that  the  more  weight  the 
better.  The  Doc  says  that's  bunk.  He's  got 
me  down  to  where  I'm  six  pounds  lighter  than 

[50] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


a  straw  hat,  but  all  of  it  is  fighting  weight,  and 
I  can  go  faster  and  last  longer  than  I  could 
before.  You  watch  me  root  into  the  old  champ ; 
he'll  know  that  he's  been  to  a  barbecue." 

Fred  Haynes,  acting  as  referee,  called  the 
boys  to  the  middle  of  the  ring. 

11  Shake  hands,"  said  he.  "No  hard  feel 
ings?" 

Billy  Wade  put  his  arm  around  Eeddy 's  neck. 

' '  I  'm  coming  after  you,  old  kid, ' '  said  he. 

"You  won't  have  to  get  out  no  search  war 
rant,"  grunted  Eeddy.  "I'll  meet  you  some 
where  on  the  way." 

1 '  All  set  I "  asked  Haynes.  "  Go  to  your  cor 
ners.  Eing  the  bell,  Ortega!" 

Don  Felipe,  one  eye  glued  to  the  doctor's  stop 
watch,  smote  violently  upon  a  small  anvil  and 
the  battle  began. 

Billy  Wade  darted  out  of  his  corner,  head 
down  and  hands  low  at  his  sides,  ready  to  slam 
with  either  one  the  instant  he  got  within  range. 
Redder  Burke,  looking  like  a  freckled  little  cin 
namon  bear,  trotted  to  close  quarters  without 
hesitation,  and  the  gloves  began  to  fly.  For 
three  minutes  there  was  no  sound  but  the  scrap 
ing  of  shoes  upon  canvas,  the  thud  of  body 
blows,  and  the  sympathetic  groans  of  Don  Fe 
lipe  Ortega. 

"How  long  can  he  stand  that  kind  of  going?" 
asked  Porsano  of  his  charge  after  the  round 
was  over. 

"That's  what  we're  going  to  find  out,"  said 
[51] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Eeddy.    "I  got  in  a  couple  of  pippins  to  the 
slats. " 

"Keep  right  after  him,"  said  Joe.  "That 
sort  of  pace  will  crack  him  if  anything  will. ' ' 

"Bight!"  said  Burke. 

But  Wade  did  not  crack.  He  crowded  a  whole 
battle  into  each  round,  and  Porsano,  watching 
the  other  corner  narrowly,  saw  no  signs  of  dis 
tress.  He  fought  in  his  old-time  style,  a  head 
long,  crouching  attack  directed  at  the  body,  with 
an  occasional  vicious  overhand  chop  to  the  head. 

After  the  tenth  round,  Eeddy  began  to 
weaken.  His  body  from  chest  to  belt  was  red 
and  blotched,  and  his  lower  lip  was  split. 
Wade 's  right  eye  was  slowly  closing,  in  spite  of 
all  the  doctor  could  do,  and  his  nose  was  bleed 
ing  freely — evidence  that  the  battle  had  not  been 
entirely  one-sided. 

"Gee,  but  he's — got  a  lot — behind  those  short 
punches!"  wheezed  Eeddy,  at  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  round.  "Some  fighter  yet — ain't 
lie?" 

* '  You  bet, ' '  said  Porsano.  "  Fve  seen  enough 
to  convince  me,  Eeddy.  You'd  better  quit." 

"Who,  me?"  and  the  little  fellow  fairly  bris 
tled.  "Why,  the  champ  never  knocked  me  out 
yet!  If  I  can  land  a  couple — on  his  chin " 

When  Don  Felipe  struck  the  anvil  at  the  be 
ginning  of  the  seventeenth  round,  Doc  Phelps 
yelled  across  the  ring  to  Porsano : 

"Look  out  for  your  man,  Joe!  I've  turned 
the  wolf  loose!" 

[52] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOE 


* '  If  he  can  fight,  any  faster  than  he 's  been 
fighting,''  said  Porsano,  "he  is  a  wolf!" 

Billy  Wade  fell  upon  his  tired  sparring  part 
ner  like  a  fury,  battering  down  his  guard  and 
clubbing  short,  savage  punches  into  the  body. 
Beddy  wavered,  gave  ground,  and  dropped  his 
hands  at  his  sides.  Like  a  flash,  Wade  switched 
the  attack  to  the  jaw — two  hooks  and  a  swing, 
and  down  went  Beddy  Burke,  a  tangle  of  arms 
and  legs.  Billy  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  him 
and  took  the  red  head  into  his  lap. 

"Old  pal,  you  ain.'t  hurt,  are  you?  I  didn't 
mean  to  wallop  you  so  hard — on  the  level !  Doc ! 
Come  and  look  at  him !  He 's  out  yet ! ' ' 

It  was  three  minutes  before  Beddy  opened  his 
eyes. 

"What  come  off!"  he  mumbled. 

"He  got  you,  my  son,"  said  the  doctor,  pass 
ing  the  smelling  salts  under  Beddy 's  nose. 

Billy  Wade  leaped  into  the  air,  cracked  his 
heels  together,  and  emitted  a  succession  of 
piercing  yells. 

"I  never  flattened  him  before  in  my  life !"  he 
shouted.  ' '  Now  bring  on  your  Frankie  Bra- 
dys!" 

"Yes,"  said  Beddy,  sitting  up,  with  a  twisted 
grin,  "if  you'll  stick  one  on  Brady's  chops  like 
the  one  you  just  pinned  on  mine,  there  won't  be 
much  to  it.  Why,  you  old  champ !  I  didn't  think 
you  had  it  in  you ! ' ' 

"Well,  Joe,  what  do  you  think?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

[53] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


Supper  was  over,  and  the  three  older  men 
were  sitting  upon  the  porch  in  the  moonlight. 
The  late  antagonists  were  squabbling  amiably 
over  a  game  of  seven-up  in  the  dining  room. 

"You're  managing  him?"  asked  Porsano. 

' '  No, ' '  said  the  doctor.  ' '  I  Ve  taught  him  how 
to  manage  himself.  I  can't  appear  in  this  thing ; 
I'm  only  his  physician." 

"Well,  you've  done  a  mighty  fine  job.  He 
fights  exactly  as  he  used  to,  except  that  he's 
got  more  zip  than  he  ever  had.  Frankie  Brady 
won't  be  much  more  than  a  light  lunch  for  him 
now.  The  only  trouble  will  be  to  make  the 
match.  I'll  go  back  to  town  and  sort  of  spill 
the  news  that  I've  heard  from  Billy  and  that 
he  wants  just  one  more  match.  No  need  to  say 
why;  they'll  all  figure  that  he's  broke  and  needs 
the  money.  That  '11  be  enough  to  start  the  sport 
ing  writers  after  him ;  those  fellows  have  written 
themselves  into  the  belief  that  Billy  Wade  can 
never  come  back;  half  of  'em  have  had  him 
buried.  It  ought  to  look  like  a  soft  thing  for 
Brooks  and  Brady;  if  it  doesn't,  we  can  make  it 
worth  their  while.  If  I  hook  'em  for  a  battle, 
you  ship  Billy  into  town  about  ten  days  before 
the  fight  and  let  him  do  a  little  road  work  and 
some  light  boxing — just  enough  for  a  stall.  No 
need  to  uncover  him  to  any  one ;  it  would  hurt 
the  odds." 

"You're  thinking  of  betting  on  him?"  asked 
Haynes. 

"Am  I?  This  is  one  place  where  I'd  hock  the 
crown  jewels  and  mortgage  the  family  plate!" 

[54] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


Later,  when  Haynes  and  Phelps  were  alone, 
the  former  asked  a  question. 

"You'll  make  a  clean-up  on  this  fight,  won't 
you,  Doc?" 

"I've  made  it  already,"  said  the  doctor.  "A 
clean-up  mentally,  morally,  and  physically.  As 
to  the  betting,  I  don't  believe  I'll  do  any." 

"What?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you'd  pass 
up  a  cinch  like  this?" 

"That's  the  idea.  Do  you  know  what  they 
call  me  in  town,  Fred?  'The  sporting  doctor.' 
It's  a  bad  combination.  A  man  can't  be  a  sport 
and  a  doctor  at  the  same  time;,  he's  bound  to 
neglect  one  practice  for  the  other.  I've  been  a 
sport,  and  it  didn't  get  me  anything;  now  I'm 
going  to  try  being  a  doctor. ' ' 

"Why  this  sudden  change  of  heart?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  can  explain  it  to  you,"  said 
Phelps,  "because  I  hardly  understand  it  my 
self.  You  know  how  I  handled  this  boy  Wade. 
First,  I  cleaned  him  out  physically,  but  I  knew 
that  it  wouldn't  last  unless  I  cleaned  him  out 
mentally  and  morally  as  well.  I  took  that  kid 
off  by  himself  and  preached  to  him ;  I  showed 
him  that  clean  living  and  manliness  and  de 
cency  were  worth  more  than  just  a  means  to 
an  end — such  as  licking  Brady,  for  example. 
And  I  talked  so  much  to  him  along  those  lines* 
that  I  guess  some  of  the  sermons  struck  in  on 
me.  For  the  first  time  in  a  number  of  years, 
I'm  fit  physically,  and  it  has  had  a  certain  effect 
upon  my  mental  processes.  It's  a  humiliating 
confession  to  make,  Fred,  but  I  haven't  been 

[55] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


much  of  a  success  as  a  physician  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  was  too  busy  being  a  sport.  That 
was  another  habit.  I've  gambled  ever  since  I 
can  remember ;  I  pitched  pennies  when  I  was  in 
short  pants.  I  learned  more  poker  in  the  high 
school  than  anything  else.  I  supported  half  the 
tight  players  in  my  class  at  college,  and  it  never 
got  me  a  thing  worth  having.  I'm  done." 

"But — this  is  a  cinch.    It's  easy  money." 

Phelps  yawned. 

"I  never  did  like  cinches,"  he  said.  "It  was 
always  the  excitement  and  the  element  of 
chance  that  hooked  me.  And  easy  money  never 
did  me  any  good." 

"I  think  you're  a  chump,"  said  Haynes. 

"I  think  I  have  been,"  was  the  unruffled 
response,  "but  I'm  going  to  be  a  regular  nine- 
to-twelve  and  two-to-five  doctor  for  a  change." 

"More  power  to  you!"  said  Haynes. 

VIII 

Frankie  Brady,  lightweight  champion,  sat  in 
his  corner,  working  the  padding  off  his  knuckles. 

"He  looks  good,"  said  Brady  doubtfully. 

"Didn't  Jeff  look  good  at  Reno?"  asked  Bo 
Brooks.  "Take  it  from  me — they  never  come 
back.  All  you  got  to  do  is  to  stick  a  few  good 
hard  wallops  into  his  pantry  and  leave  him  for 
the  sweeper." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Brady.  "The  poor  sucker 
ain't  even  got  a  manager.  And  only  one  man 
in  his  corner.  Reddy  Burke!  What  does  he 
know  about  handling  a  fighter!" 

[56] 


THE    SPORTING   DOCTOR 


1 '  Bob  Fitzsimmons  used  to  do  that  one-man- 
in-the-corner  stunt,"  said  Brooks.  "Said  they 
was  in  his  way." 

Billy  Wade,  introduced  as  the  former  light 
weight  champion  of  the  world,  drew  a  scattering 
volley  of  cheers,  mixed  with  hoots  and  catcalls. 
The  Eoman  populace  with  its  ready  thumb  was 
no  more  cruel  than  the  average  crowd  which 
attends  a  boxing  match.  Wade,  the  short-ender 
in  the  betting,  had  shown  nothing  in  his  brief 
period  of  training  unless  it  was  an  inclination 
to  avoid  careful  inspection.  The  consensus  of 
opinion  was  that  he  was  only  a  shell  and  that 
five  rounds  would  see  his  finish. 

Frankie  Brady  was  received  with  vociferous 
applause,  acknowledging  the  same  with  a  curt 
nod  of  his  tousled  head.  •  Just  before  the  bell 
rang,  a  trim,  bronzed  young  man  with  glasses 
left  Porsano's  private  box,  and  shook  hands 
with  Wade. 

1 1  Eat  him  alive,  old  boy ! ' '  said  the  doctor. 

"Leave  him  to  us!"  said  Eeddy  Burke. 
"We're  going  to  take  that  guy  apart  a  joint  at 
a  time.  Look  at  him,  Doc!  He's  got  a  lot  of 
fat  to  burn  up,  eh?" 

Billy  Wade  introduced  himself  to  Frankie 
Brady  with  a  whirlwind  attack  which  made  the 
champion  dive  into  a  clinch.  The  sensations  he 
experienced  may  be  duplicated  at  the  cost  of 
tackling  a  mule's  hind  legs  or  attempting  to 
hug  a  thunderbolt.  There  was  no  holding  those 
brown  shoulders,  no  blocking  those  driving  fists, 
and  the  champion  extricated  himself  from  the 

[57] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


storm  center  and  retreated,  ducking  and  side 
stepping.  "Wade  clung  to  him  like  a  shadow, 
driving  Brady  into  corners,  hammering  him  out 
of  them,  and  mauling  him  along  the  ropes.  The 
spectators,  who  had  settled  down  to  watch  the 
feeling-out  process,  were  startled  into  loud  yells. 

"Break  him!  Break  him!"  cried  Brady  to 
the  referee,  hanging  on  for  dear  life. 

'  *  Break  yourself ! ' y  said  the  official.  '  'You  're 
holding;  he  ain't. " 

"Four-flusher!"  said  Wade,  hammering  his 
right  fist  under  the  champion 's  heart.  "  I  'm  go 
ing  to  make  you  jump  out  of  the  ring ! ' ' 

At  the  end  of  the  round,  Brady  hurried  to 
his  corner  with  a  wild  light  in  his  eye. 

"Stay  right  with  him,"  said  Brooks.  "He's 
trying  to  win  in  a  couple  of  rounds.  It's  his 
only  chance.  The  faster  he  fights,  the  sooner 
he  '11  blow  up.  Hang  right  to  him ! ' ' 

"  You  made  this  match !"  said  Frankie  Brady. 
"I  didn't  want  to  fight  till  Thanksgiving." 

History  was  repeating  itself.  This  time  it 
was  Frankie  Brady  who  had  failed  to  train  for 
a  hard  battle. 

"Aw,  can  that!"  growled  Brooks.  "Go  in 
there  and  jab  his  head  off.  He  can't  last,  I  say!" 

Brady  tried  to  follow  instructions,  but  no  left 
jab  could  have  held  Billy  Wade  at  arm's  length. 
He  was  determined  to  qpme  to  close  quarters, 
and,  once  there,  he  addressed  himself  to  the 
champion's  stomach  with  a  resounding  tattoo 
which  sent  that  agitated  young  man  flying  from 
one  angle  of  the  ring  to  the  other.  Uncle  Bill 

[58] 


THE   SPORTING  DOCTOE 


Horton,  who  had  seen  many  things  but  who  had 
never  before  witnessed  the  second  coming  of  a 
champion,  stroked  his  chin,  dictating  mechan 
ically  to  the  telegraph  operator  at  his  elbow. 

"Wade  puts  in  solid  right  to  body,  and  fol 
lows  with  left  to  same  place — Brady  hanging  on 
— Wade  rushes  champion  to  ropes,  landing 
right,  left,  and  right  to  body  without  a  return — 
Brady  clinches,  and  takes  severe  punishment — 
Wa.de 's  round." 

"Don't  let  him  get  at  you  in  the  clinches, " 
cautioned  Brooks.  "Block  those  short  ones." 

"I  can't  hold  him,"  panted  Brady.  "He's 
strong  as  a  bull." 

"Box  him,  you  fool!  Stay  away  for  a  while. 
He  can't  last." 

Brady  tried  all  the  wiles  of  the  seasoned 
campaigner.  He  jabbed,  and  he  ducked,  and  he 
tried  to  "stall,"  but  he  could  not  smother  the 
headlong  attack  of  the  challenger.  Wade  shed 
stinging  left  jabs  and  right  swings  with  an 
impatient  jerk  of  his  head,  walking  through 
them  to  close  quarters.  He  would  not  be  tricked 
into  sparring  at  long  range,  but  when  he  got 
inside  Brady's  guard  he  attacked  with  tigerish 
ferocity.  Hitching  his  shoulders  and  dropping 
his  knees  together,  he  sent  in  short,  crashing 
drives  below  the  rib  line,  lifting  every  ounce  of 
his  weight  and  all  the  strength  of  his  legs  into 
each  jolting  blow. 

Until  the  sixth,  each  round  was  a  repetition 
of  the  first.  Early  in  that  period,  Wade  knew 
Brady  was  weakening  fast.  He  felt  his 
[59] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


body  sag  as  he  fell  into  a  clinch.  Immediately 
Billy  concentrated  his  attack  upon  the  jaw,  the 
first  gun  being  a  wicked  overhand  right,  deliv 
ered  from  a  crouch.  It  struck  a  trifle  high,  but 
it  smashed  Frankie  Brady's  nose  as  flat  as  a 
postage  stamp  and  knocked  him  sprawling  on 
his  back.  He  was  up  at  once,  running  desper 
ately,  but  Wade  chased  him  into  a  corner, 
feinted  for  the  first  time  in  the  fight,  and  then 
crossed  the  right  fairly  upon  the  chin. 

Before  the  referee  had  marked  the  passing  of 
the  first  second,  Uncle  Bill  Horton  was  dictating 
the  following  message  which  was  to  shake  the 
sporting  world  from  center  to  circumference: 

"Wade  by  a  knock-out  in  sixth." 

IX 

Doctor  Phelps  sat  in  his  office,  cleaning  out 
an  inkwell  for  which  he  hoped  to  have  use  in 
the  future.  The  door  opened  and  in  came  Eeddy 
Burke  and  the  lightweight  champion. 

"You  ought  to  stuck  with  us  after  the  fight!" 
said  Eeddy.  "Talk  about  champagne!  You 
could  have  had  a  bath  in  it!" 

The  doctor  looked  at  Billy  Wade. 

"Not  a  drop,"  said  the  champion.  "That's 
on  the  level.  You  know  how  it  is  after  a  fight — 
you  got  to  cut  into  the  grape  to  show  you're  a 
good  fellow.  The  gang  got  me  and  took  me  out, 
that's  all." 

"And  we  got  ten  weeks  on  the  P.  &  B.  circuit 
— a  thousand  a  week ! ' '  chortled  Eeddy. ' '  We  're 

[60] 


THE   SPORTING   DOCTOR 


going  away  to-night,  so  we  want  to  see  you  and 
fix  up  that  bill." 

"Bill?"  repeated  the  doctor.  "Oh,  never 
mind  that.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any  bill." 

*  *  Nothing  doing  with  that  kind  of  talk ! ' '  said 
the  champion  sternly.  "Who  was  it  fixed  me 
up?  Who  was  it  made  me  win  this  fight?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Phelps.  "Maybe  I 
got  as  much  out  of  it  as  you  did." 

"How  much  did  you  bet,  Doc?"  asked  Eeddy. 

"Not  a  cent." 

"I  told  you  he  wasn't  going  to  bet!"  said 
Billy.  "And  I  had  a  hunch  that  you'd  run  out 
on  the  bill.  You  wouldn't  refuse  to  take  a  little 
present,  would  you,  Doc?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  wouldn't  refuse." 

Billy  Wade  drew  a  small  jeweler's  box  from 
his  pocket,  and  opened  it. 

"You'll  never  find  a  better  one  than  this, 
Doc,"  said  he,  "and  I  want  you  to  wear  it  to 
remember  me  by.  You  made  me  win  a  tougher 
fight  than  was  ever  pulled  off  in  a  ring — yes, 
and  a  better  one,  too." 

"I  know,  Billy,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  know, 
because  I  won  the  same  fight  myself." 


Some  people  claim  that  a  five-karat,  blue- 
white  diamond,  set  in  platinum,  is  vulgar.  Doc 
tor  Arthur  Phelps,  whose  practice  is  increasing 
daily,  says  that  the  rays  from  such  a  stone 
dazzle  the  eyes  of  a  patient,  and  allow  him  to 
charge  more  than  his  services  are  really  worth. 

But  he  may  be  joking  about  that. 
[61] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE— RINGSIDE 


CHARLES  FRANCIS  HEALY,  known  to 
all  the  world  as  " Young  Sullivan,"  sat 
on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  stared  incred 
ulously  at  Billy  Avery,  his  manager,  press 
agent,  and  bosom  friend. 

"Naw,"  said  Healy,  shaking  his  head,  "you 
don't  mean  that,  Billy.  You're  only  kidding." 

"It  ain't  what  I  mean,  Charles,"  said  Avery, 
discouragement  showing  in  the  dispirited  droop 
of  his  shoulders  and  the  flat  tones  of  his  voice. 
"It's  what  Badger  means  that  cuts  the  ice.  I 
talked  to  him  for  four  hours — the  obstinate 
mule! — and  that's  the  very  best  we  get — one- 
thirty-three  at  the  ringside." 

"But,  man  alive,"  wailed  the  little  fighter, 
"that's  murder  in  the  first  degree!  He'd  be 
getting  me  in  the  ring  so  weak  that  a  feather 
weight  could  lick  me !" 

"Yes,"  said  Avery,  "and  he  knows  that  as 
well  as  you  do.  That's  what  he's  playing  for 
— a  cinch." 

"The  public  won't  stand  for  it!"  stormed 
Healy. 

"The  public  be  damned!"  said  Billy  Avery, 
[62] 


ONE-THIKTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


unconsciously  quoting  another  and  greater  pub 
lic  character.  "It  stands  for  anything — every 
thing.  We're  on  the  wrong  side  of  this  weight 
question,  Charles.  Badger  has  got  the  cham 
pion,  and  it's  just  our  confounded  luck  that 
Cline  can  do  one-thirty-three  and  be  strong. 
Cline  won  it  from  Fisher  at  one-thirty-three 
ringside,  and  Badger  says  that  every  man  who 
fights  Cline  for  the  title  must  make  the  same 
weight — the  lightweight  limit." 

"Huh!"  snarled  Healy.  "There  ain't  any 
such  thing  as  a  limit !  I  notice  that  they  called 
'Young  Corbett*  a  champion  after  he  licked 
McGovern,  and  Corbett  couldn't  get  within  a 
city  block  of  the  featherweight  limit!  They 
make  me  sick!  It's  the  champion  that  makes 
the  weight  limit — not  the  rules!" 

"All  true,"  said  Avery;  "and  that's  exactly 
why  we're  up  against  it.  Cline  can  do  the 
weight.  Badger  opened  up  and  talked  straight 
off  his  chest,  Charlie.  He  says  he  isn't  anxious 
to  fight  us  because  he's  got  softer  matches  in 
sight  where  Cline  won't  have  to  take  a  chance. 
He  thinks  that  this  weight  restriction  will  stop 
us  bothering  him  with  challenges  and  chasing 
him  around  the  country  with  certified  checks 
and  things.  I  hollered  like  a  wolf  for  one-thirty- 
five  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  only 
laughed  at  me.  *  We  're  not  fighting  welters,  this 
season, '  he  says.  '  One-thirty-three  ringside,  or 
nothing.  Take  it  or  leave  it. '  The  Shylock ! ' ' 

"Well,  leave  it,  then!"  said  Healy  angrily. 
"If  Mike  Badger  thinks  I'm  sucker  enough  to 

[63] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


cut  off  an  arm  and  a  leg,  just  to  get  a  fight 
with  that  hunk  of  cheese  that  he's  managing, 
he's  got  another  guess  coming.  I'll  go  into  the 
welterweight  class  first!" 

"Y-e-e-s,"  said  Avery  slowly,  "and  there 
isn't  a  welter  in  the  country  to-day  that  would 
draw  a  two-thousand-dollar  house.  I  suppose 
we'll  have  to  go  back  to  the  six  and  ten-round 
no-decision  things,  splitting  the  money  even, 
and  agreeing  to  box  easy !  Yah !  A  fine  game, 
that  is!" 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  ought  to  grab  this 
fight  with  Cline?"  It  was  more  than  a  ques 
tion  ;  it  was  an  accusation. 

"Well,"  said  the  business  manager,  looking 
at  the  ceiling,  for  he  had  no  wish  to  meet  Young 
Sullivan's  eyes  just  then,  "the  bank  roll  ain't 
very  fat,  Charlie.  We  could  use  a  few  thousand, 
you  know,  and  there 's  more  money  in  losing  to 
Cline — don't  get  excited,  kid;  let  me  talk — than 
we  could  get  by  winning  from  a  flock  of  pork- 
and-bean  welters.  That  fight  would  draw  forty 
thousand  if  it  draws  a  cent.  If  you  win — and 
it's  no  cinch  that  Cline  will  be  as  good  as  he 
was  two  years  ago — we  can  clean  up  a  fortune 
the  first  year,  like  shooting  fish!" 

"  If  I  win ! "  said  Healy  bitterly.  l 1 1  tell  you, 
it'll  murder  me  to  get  down  to  one-thirty-three! 
I'd  have  to  cut  the  meat  right  off  the  bone  to 
do  it.  You  know  I  made  one-thirty-five  for 
Kelly,  and  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  outpoint  him 
in  twenty  rounds  when  I  should  have  stopped 
him  with  a  punch ! ' ' 

[64] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


"The  loser's  end  ought  to  be  eight  thousand, 
at  least,"  said  Avery,  still  looking  at  the  ceil 
ing.  "And  in  case  you  don't  get  him,  you've 
got  a  fine  alibi — the  weight  stopped  you.  It  was 
your  stomach  that  bothered  you  in  the  Kelly 
fight,  remember  that. ' ' 

"See  here,  Billy,"  said  Charles  Francis, 
"you  want  me  ta  fight  Cline,  don't  you?  Even 
at  one-thirty-three?" 

"We  need  the  money,"  said  the  manager  sim 
ply. 

"I'll  gamble  you!"  said  Healy,  producing  a 
silver  half  dollar.  "Heads,  I  fight  him;  tails, 
I  don't.  Will  you  stick  by  it,  Billy,  if  it  comes 
tails?" 

"Sure!"  said  the  manager.  "Will  you  go 
through  with  it  if  she  comes  heads?" 

"It's  a  promise!"  said  Healy. 

The  coin  spun,  flickering,  in  the  air,  struck  the 
carpet,  and  rolled  to  the  fighter's  feet. 

1 '  Heads ! "  he  groaned.    '  <  I  lose,  Billy !  > ' 

Whenever  a  sporting  writer  had  reason  to 
rake  over  his  vocabulary  for  the  sort  of  an  ad 
jective  which  should  best  fit  Mike  Badger,  man 
ager  of  "Biddy"  Cline,  the  choice  usually  lay 
between  two  words.  The  scribes  who  liked  Mike 
selected  "astute."  The  other  said  he  was  "ob 
stinate."  Both  were  right. 

To  be  absolutely  fair  in  the  matter,  Mike  was 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  any  other  mana 
ger.  Only  wiser.  When  he  made  a  business 
contract,  he  was  prudent  enough  to  demand  at 

[65] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


least  seventy-five  per  cent  the  best  of  the  bar 
gain,  and  tenacious  enough  to  hold  out  until  he 
got  it.  Mike  simply  did  what  the  other  fellows 
would  have  done  if  they  had  been  given  the 
opportunity,  and  every  one  knows  what  an  un 
principled  course  that  is  to  pursue.  One  fight 
promoter,  hoping  to  secure  certain  concessions 
and  smarting  under  Mike 's  steady  refusal  to  re 
cede  from  the  original  proposition,  burst  out 
thus: 

''Ain't  you  got  any  sportsmanship  in  you  at 
alii" 

' '  Not  a  stitch, ' '  answered  Mike.  ' '  Sportsman 
ship  and  business  are  two  different  things. 
I'm  a  business  man,  and  you  know  my  terms. 
I've  got  something  to  sell — buy  it  or  let  it 
slide." 

In  the  "good  old  days,"  which  some  of  the 
scarred  bare-knuckle  veterans  still  mourn  with 
sorrowful  pride,  a  fighter  needed  no  business 
manager  for  the  excellent  reason  that  fighting 
was  not  then  a  business.  It  was  a  habit.  With 
the  era  of  large  purses  and  profitable  theatrical 
engagements  came  the  shrewd  business  man, 
and  Mike  Badger  was  the  shrewdest  of  them  all. 
He  could  smell  a  five-dollar  note  farther  than 
a  bird  dog  can  smell  a  glue  factory. 

A  champion  is  the  greatest  asset  a  wise  man 
ager  can  have — and  vice  versa.  The  very  word, 
"champion,"  is  a  valuable  trade-mark.  It 
means  easy  money,  free  advertising,  and,  last 
and  most  important,  the  right  to  dictate  terms. 
Every  ambitious  fighter  dreams  of  winning  a 

[66] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


title  some  day;  the  man  who  has  one  dreams 
only  of  keeping  it  until  the  last  dollar  has  been 
squeezed  out  and  then  retiring  undefeated. 

It  is  because  of  the  financial  value  of  this 
trade-mark  that  championships  are  so  carefully 
guarded.  It  is  easier  to  hale  a  multimillionaire 
before  an  investigating  committee  than  it  is  to 
get  a  champion  of  the  world  into  the  ring  with 
a  fighter  who  has  an  even  chance  to  defeat  him. 
All  sorts  of  tactics  are  used  in  order  to  side 
step  dangerous  matches.  Managers  of  heavy 
weights,  lacking  poundage  restrictions,  often 
bid  the  ambitious  challenger  good-by  until  such 
time  as  he  has  secured  a  reputation,  fondly  hop 
ing  that  in  the  process  he  will  be  soundly  licked 
and  eliminated.  Managers  of  bantams,  feath 
ers,  and  lightweights  insist  that  husky  aspi 
rants  shall  "do  the  weight,  ringside."  Many 
a  man  has  saved  his  title  by  starving  an  oppo 
nent  for  a  week  before  a  match.  The  old-time 
bare-knuckle  warriors  sneer  at  this  sort  of 
thing.  They  were  used  to  making  matches, 
"give  or  take  ten  pounds,"  but,  as  has  been 
pointed  out,  they  were  not  business  men.  The 
slogan,  "May  the  best  man  win,"  has  been 
changed  to  "May  the  best-managed  man  win." 

Biddy  Cline  was  a  great  little  fighter — prob 
ably  the  greatest  at  his  weight  that  the  ring 
had  seen  during  his  generation.  He  was  no 
boxer,  but  a  sturdy,  willing,  courageous  chap, 
who  began  fighting  when  the  bell  rang  and  con 
tinued  to  fight  as  long  as  the  other  man  could 
stand  in  front  of  him.  His  record  was  black 

[67] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


with  knock-outs,  though  Biddy  was  not  the  typ 
ical  one-punch  fighter.  His  victims  succumbed 
to  the  cumulative  effect  of  a  thousand  blows  as 
well  as  the  terrific  pace  they  were  compelled  to 
travel.  It  was  a  very  strong  lightweight,  in 
deed,  who  could  play  Cline's  game  with  the 
champion  and  hear  the  gong  at  the  end  of  the 
fifteenth  round.  Biddy's  best  fighting  weight 
was  slightly  below  one-thirty-three,  he  had  held 
the  championship  for  three  years,  and,  under 
Mike  Badger's  careful  guidance,  expected  to 
hold  it  for  three  years  more. 

Charles  Francis  Healy  had  been  a  large, 
sharp  thorn  in  the  champion's  side  for  some 
time.  He  was  a  dashing,  sensational  performer, 
a  clever  boxer,  a  hard,  clean  hitter,  and  a  tre 
mendous  finisher — the  very  ideal  of  the  average 
fight  follower.  He  had  beaten  nearly  all  the  men 
whom  Cline  had  defeated — most  of  them  in 
shorter  fights — but  this  was  only  natural,  as 
Healy 's  best  fighting  weight  was  close  to  one 
hundred  and  forty  pounds.  When  he  trained 
below  one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  he  was  sac 
rificing  strength  and  stamina,  and  one  hundred 
and  thirty-five  pounds  at  three  in  the  afternoon 
was  the  lowest  notch  he  had  been  able  to  make 
with  any  degree  of  safety.  In  spite  of  this, 
Billy  Avery  challenged  the  champion  once  a 
month  with  clocklike  regularity,  and  was  as  fre 
quently  informed  that  the  holder  of  the  title 
had  other  pressing  matters  on  his  hands.  The 
end  of  Avery 's  campaign  had  been  the  private 

[68] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


conference  with  Badger  and  the  latter 's  ulti 
matum  : 

"One-thirty-three,  ringside,  or  no  fight." 

Then,  with  the  hardihood  of  a  man  who  gam 
bles  when  he  knows  he  cannot  afford  to  lose, 
Healy  had  risked  certain  defeat  on  the  flip  of 
a  coin. 

The  match  was  made  with  a  tremendous 
thrumming  of  journalistic  tomtoms,  and  sport 
ing  America  sat  up  cheerfully,  for  this  was  the 
one  great  fight  it  really  wished  to  see.  When 
the  articles  of  agreement  were  drawn  up — a 
queer  document,  half  legal,  half  sporting  in  its 
phraseology — Mike  Badger  dropped  a  large  fly 
in  Billy  Avery's  ointment.  It  came  with  the 
dictation  of  the  forfeiture  clause — Mr.  Badger 
speaking: 

"For  weight,  five  thousand  dollars;  for  ap 
pearance " 

' '  Hold  on,  there ! ' 9  yelled  Avery.  ' '  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  weight  forfeit  of  five  thousand  dol 
lars?" 

"You  did— just  now,"  said  the  imperturbable 
Mike,  with  a  grin.  "I'm  going  to  make  it  an 
object  for  your  man  to  do  one-thirty-three.  I've 
had  fighters  forfeit  their  weight  money  on  me 
before  this." 

Avery  argued  and  Healy  glared  across  the 
table  at  Biddy  Cline,  who  glared  back,  such  con 
duct  being  customary  in  the  presence  of  news 
paper  men ;  but  Mike  was  firm  as  Gibraltar. 

"Here's  the  point,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  ig 
noring  the  sputtering  Avery.  "I  don't  want 

[69] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


this  man  to  come  into  the  ring  weighing  a  ton. 
This  fight  is  to  be  for  the  lightweight  champion 
ship  of  the  world,  at  the  lightweight  limit.  If  we 
are  overweight,  we  shall  expect  to  forfeit  five' 
thousand  dollars.  If  Avery's  man  can't  do 
one-thirty-three,  I  want  to  know  it  now.  If  he 
can  make  it,  why  should  he  object  to  a  large 
forfeit?  Come  on,  Avery.  Now's  your  chance 
to  spring  some  of  those  certified  checks  you've 
been  flashing  around  the  country  so  recklessly!" 

In  the  end  Mike  Badger  won  out,  as  was  his 
habit.  Billy  Avery  had  the  added  worry  of 
knowing  that  his  entire  fortune,  as  well  as  the 
sweepings  and  scrapings  of  Healy 's  bank  roll, 
was  forfeit  unless  the  challenger  reached  the 
lightweight  limit. 

"We're  hooked,"  said  Avery  gloomily,  when 
he  was  alone  with  his  warrior.  "If  the  weight 
forfeit  had  been  a  thousand  bucks  or  so,  we 
could  have  let  it  slide  and  still  made  money; 
but  now  it's  one-thirty-three  or  bust!" 

1 1  Bust  is  good ! ' '  said  Healy.  ' '  We  bust  if  we 
don't,  and  we  bust  if  we  do.  You  might  have 
known  that  Badger  would  slip  one  over  on  you 
somehow.  A  fine  mess  you  Ve  got  us  in,  Billy ! ' ' 

"Me?"  exclaimed  the  manager,  virtuously  in 
dignant.  "Say,  what's  the  matter  with  youf 
Who  offered  to  toss  the  coin?  Whose  idea  was 
that?" 

1 '  Shucks ! ' '  growled  Healy.  ' '  I  only  did  that 
because  I  knew  you  intended  to  make  the  match 
anyway." 

' '  You  took  a  chance " 

[70] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


"Yes;  and  so  did  Steve  Brodie,"  interrupt 
ed  the  fighter.  ' '  He  ought  to  have  had  his  head 
examined  for  doing  it,  and  I'm  worse,  because 
Steve  had  a  chance  to  win  and  I  haven't.  I  was 
kind  of  figuring  on  forfeiting  my  weight  money 
if  I  saw  I  couldn  't  get  that  low  without  trouble ; 
but  now  I've  got  to  hang  up  my  hat  in  a  Turk 
ish  bath  joint  for  a  week  before  that  fight,  and 
I'll  be  as  weak  as  a  kitten!  You're  one  swell 
manager,  you  are ! ' ' 

"And  you're  a  grand  squealer,"  said  Avery. 
"Your  own  proposition  and  now  you  blame 
me." 

Thus,  with  mutual  reproaches  and  a  general 
disarticulation  of  family  skeletons,  the  chal 
lenger  and  his  manager  set  out  to  secure  train 
ing  quarters  for  the  coming  event,  the  shadow 
of  which  loomed  dark  about  them. 


ii 

"Can  Healy  do  the  weight  and  be  strong!" 
This  momentous  question  agitated  every 
sporting  center  in  the  country.  It  was  dis 
cussed  as  far  away  as  London,  Paris,  and 
Melbourne.  Men  wrote  about  it,  talked  about 
it,  argued  about  it ;  and  all  agreed  that  the  out 
come  of  the  match  hinged  upon  the  correct  an 
swer,  and  nowhere  was  there  such  uncertainty 
as  in  Healy 's  training  camp.  There  were  only 
two  men  who  really  knew,  and  they  were  not 
committing  themselves.  Even  the  trainer  was 
excluded  from  the  daily  weighing  process. 

[71] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


The  newspaper  men  urged  that  the  public  had 
a  ' '  right  to  know ' ' ;  spies  from  the  other  camp 
nosed  about  daily ;  betting  men  begged  the  low- 
down  and  on-the-level ;  curious  ones  sought 
to  satisfy  their  curiosity ;  close  personal  friends 
went  away  disappointed.  Billy  Avery  would 
talk  about  everything  but  the  weight,  and  when 
that  subject  was  mentioned,  he  became  an  oys 
ter,  gripping  tight  the  pearl  of  information. 
Healy  had  but  one  answer:  "See  Billy  about 
it." 

The  best  judges  had  no  chance  to  form  an 
opinion,  for  they  never  saw  Healy  stripped. 
Whenever  he  appeared  in  the  gymnasium  he 
was  loaded  down  with  sweaters  and  woolens. 

Public  opinion  was  divided.  Half  the  fight 
followers  inclined  to  the  belief  that  Healy  could 
not  make  the  weight  and  was  therefore  secre 
tive;  the  other  half  pointed  out  that  Avery 
might  be  preparing  an  unpleasant  surprise  for 
the  opposition. 

"He's  keeping  Cline  guessing,"  said  the  op 
timistic  ones.  "If  he  couldn't  make  the  weight, 
he'd  have  been  a  fool  to  post  five  thousand 
bucks." 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  Mike  Badger  re 
ceived  a  telephone  message  from  Billy  Avery. 
He  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  hard  little  edge 
of  a  smile,  for  he  had  been  expecting  something 
of  the  sort. 

"They're  on  the  run,  Biddy,"  he  remarked 
to  his  champion.  "Avery  wants  to  see  me  to 
night — on  the  strict  Q.  T.  I  knew  that  big 

[72] 


ONE-THIRTY-THEEE RINGSIDE 


sucker  couldn't  do  the  weight,  or  anywhere  near 
it!" 

"Did  he  say  so?"  asked  the  literal  Cline. 

' '  Bonehead ! ' '  retorted  Mike. '  *  He  didn  't  have 
to  say  it.  What  else  could  he  want  to  see  me 
about?  I'll  call  the  turn  now — he  wants  to  rat 
out  on  their  forfeit.  A  swell  chance  he's  got!" 

"Serves  'em  right  for  going  around  the  coun 
try  trying  to  make  a  rum  out  of  me ! "  said  Cline 
feelingly.  *  *  Hand  it  to  'em  good,  Mike ! ' ' 

"That's  the  best  thing  I  do,"  remarked  Mr. 
Badger. 

The  real  heart-to-heart  business  of  the  fight 
ing  game  is  transacted  without  witnesses,  and 
it  shrinks  from  publicity.  The  newspaper  men 
were  not  invited  to  attend  the  moonlight  confer 
ence  of  the  managers,  and  the  meeting  was  as 
secret  as  if  they  had  been  preparing  to  dynamite 
a  national  bank. 

'  *  Hello,  Mike ! ' '  said  Avery.  '  *  Have  a  cigar  ? ' ' 

"Thanks!  Well,  out  with  it!  What's  on 
your  mind?" 

4  *  I  wanted  to  have  a  chat  with  you  about  this 
weight  proposition,"  said  Avery. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  copy  of  the  articles  of 
agreement  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Billy. 

"Well,  if  I  remember,"  said  Badger  calmly, 
"it  says  there  that  the  men  are  to  do  one-thirty- 
three,  ringside.  Is  that  correct?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  all  there  is  to  it,"  said  Badger. 
[73] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Have  you  just  found  out  that  Healy  can't  get 
down  that  low?" 

"He  can  get  down  there,  all  right, "  said 
Avery,  "but  it'll  weaken  him  pretty  bad. 
Chances  are  it  won't  be  a  very  good  fight.  Can't 
we  get  together  somehow  and — and  give  the  peo 
ple  a  run  for  their  money?  Suppose  we  should 
come  in  a  pound  or  so  overweight.  You 
wouldn't  grab  that  forfeit,  would  you?" 

"Why  wouldn't  I?"  asked  Badger  grimly. 
"That's  business,  ain't  it?  A  contract  is  a  con 
tract,  and  it  ain't  my  fault  that  you  went  into 
this  thing  without  knowing  whether  your  man 
could  do  the  weight  or  not.  You  came  to  me  and 
asked  me  for  this  match.  I  wasn't  anxious  to 
make  it,  but  I  turned  down  some  good  theatrical 
offers  and  signed  up.  You  mustn't  expect  me 
to  lose  money  on  your  mistakes.  My  dough  is 
posted,  and  I'm  going  to  carry  out  my  part  of 
the  contract.  You  must  do  the  same  thing.  I 
wouldn't  let  you  come  in  a  pound  over,  or  an 
ounce  over.  One-thirty-three,  ringside,  and 
you'll  do  it,  or  I'll  claim  your  five  thousand." 

"Looking  for  a  cinch,  ain't  you?"  sneered 
Avery. 

"You  bet  I  am;  and  if  you  had  a  champion 
you'd  be  looking  for  cinches,  too!  Now,  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something  else:  Don't  pull 
any  of  that  moth-eaten  stuff  about  breaking  a 
hand  or  an  arm  or  a  leg,  and  having  to  call  off 
the  match.  I  won't  stand  for  it.  I'll  claim 
your  appearance  money,  and  I'll  show  you  up 
from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other. ' ' 

[74]  * 


ONE-THIETY-THEEE RINGSIDE 


n 

n 


Won't  you  listen  to  reason?"  begged  Avery. 
I  haven't  heard  any,  yet,"  said  Badger, 

and,  what's  more,  I've  said  all  I'm  going  to. 
Better  have  your  man  down  to  weight  if  you 
want  to  save  that  forfeit.  I  never  make  any 
agreements  on  the  side,  and  when  I  sign  my 
name  to  a  thing  I  go  through.  Good  night. ' ' 

Avery  went  home,  talking  to  himself.  Healy 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"What  luck?"  asked  the  fighter  anxiously. 
"Would  he  do  business!" 

"Of  course,  he  wouldn't!  He's  got  us,  and 
he  knows  it.  Shylock  was  a  piker  beside  this 
guy!" 

"I  can  break  my  leg,"  suggested  Healy  hope 
fully. 

"Yes,  and  he'll  send  out  a  flock  of  doctors  to 
examine  you,  and  they'll  all  be  from  Missouri. 
It'll  take  something  more  than  a  lot  of  band 
ages  and  a  crutch  to  get  by  this  bird.  He'll 
snatch  our  appearance  money  and  put  us  in 
Dutch  all  over  the  country. ' ' 

' '  But  we  've  got  to  do  something ! ' '  There  was 
a  note  of  desperation  in  Healy 's  voice.  "Ty 
phoid  fever  might  bring  me  down  to  weight ;  but 
it's  a  cinch  sweating  won't  do  it.  One-thirty- 
nine  to-night,  and  I've  done  enough  work  al 
ready  to  sweat  an  elephant  to  a  shadow.  I  sim 
ply  can't  make  it,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
,You  know  what  the  doctor  said — that  this  ex 
cess  baggage  is  due  to  natural  growth.  It's  in 
the  bone  and  muscle,  and  it  won't  come  off! 

[75] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


Why  the  devil  didn't  we  think  of  that  before 
we  got  hooked  in  so  strong?" 

1 1  Give  me  a  chance  to  think, '  *  said  Avery.  ' '  I 
may  dig  up  a  way  to  wriggle  out  of  this  match 
and  save  the  appearance  money,  anyway.  You 
tear  into  the  hay  and  leave  it  to  me." 

"I  wish  you'd  done  your  thinking  before  we 
made  this  match ! ' '  sighed  Healy. 

" There  you  go  again!"  mumbled  Avery. 
' '  Always  putting  it  up  to  me !  Didn  't  you  toss  a 
coin,  and " 

"I've  heard  all  that  before,"  said  Healy. 
"By  the  way,  there  was  a  man  here  to  see  you 
about  eight  o'clock.  Says  he'll  be  back  about 
ten." 

"Another  nut!"  growled  the  manager. 

"Not  this  fellow,"  said  Healy.  "He  looks 
like  class,  and  he's  got  a  letter  for  you — from 
Jim  Quinn." 

"Quinn!"  said  Avery.  "Holy  cat!  I  wish 
Jim  was  here !  He  might  think  of  some  way  to 
get  us  out  of  this  jam." 

Promptly  at  ten  o'clock  the  stranger  re 
turned.  He  was  small,  neatly  dressed,  of  middle 
age,  and  wore  a  close-trimmed  beard  and  nose 
glasses.  He  presented  Quinn 's  letter  without 
comment : 


DEAR  BILLY:  I  don't  know  how  you're  fixed  on  the  weight 
proposition,  but  the  last  time  I  saw  Healy  he  was  falling 
away  to  a  mere  cartload,  and  I  don't  think  he  can  do  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty-three  ringside  without  the  aid  of  a  saw.  On 
the  chance  that  you've  got  a  bad  match  on  your  hands,  I  am 
sending  Mr.  George  Harden  to  see  you.  George  is  an  expert 
in  his  line,  knows  how  to  keep  his  mouth  shut,  and  you  can 
bank  on  anything  he  tells  you  being  right. 

[76] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


Of  course  if  Healy  can  do  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  with 
out  weakening  himself,  you  won't  need  Harden.  If  he  can't, 
put  Harden  on  the  job.  I  can't  explain  here,  for  obvious 
reasons,  but  Harden  can  make  your  man  a  winner,  and  savi 
you  the  weight  forfeit.  Wire  me  three  days  before  the  fight 
whether  I  can  bet  on  Healy  or  not.  Yours  in  haste, 

JAS.  QUINN. 

Billy  folded  the  letter  and  placed  it  in  his 
pocket. 

'  *  This  listens  well, ' '  said  he  slowly.  ' '  What  rg 
the  idea?" 

' ' The  idea  is  that  I  can  put  your  man  in  the 
ring  as  strong  as  he  is  now  and  save  you  the 
weight  forfeit.  It'll  cost  you  five  hundred  dol 
lars." 

" It  would  be  worth  it,"  said  Avery.  "My 
boy  is  having  trouble  getting  down  to  weight. 
We  didn't  figure  that  he  has  put  on  several 
pounds  by  growth  and  development,  and  it's 
coming  off  hard." 

"I'll  take  him  the  way  he  is,"  said  Harden, 
'  *  and  make  him  weigh  one-thirty-three — on  any 
scales  they  pick  out." 

"A  fake?"  demanded  Avery  suddenly. 

"Yes,  and  a  darned  good  one,"  said  Harden. 

Avery  shook  his  head. 

"Mike  Badger  is  a  pretty  wise  bird,"  said  he. 
"He's  seen  the  chewing-gum  trick  and  the  little 
chunk  of  lead,  and  all  that.  I  'd  hate  to  try  and 
get  by  him  with  a  weight-stealing  device." 

"Has  he  seen  this,  do  you  think?"  asked 
Harden,  drawing  something  from  his  pocket. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Avery,  staring  at 
what  appeared  to  be  a  stiff  black  thread  in  the 
palm  of  Harden 's  hand. 

[77] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Nothing  but  an  innocent  little  piece  of  horse 
hair,"  said  the  visitor  quietly.  "Do  you  think 
he's  seen  that?" 

"Horsehair  is  a  new  one  to  me,"  said  Avery. 
"How  does  it  work?" 

' '  That 's  my  business, ' '  said  Harden.  ' '  Leave 
me  alone  with  your  weighing  machine  for  a  few 
minutes  and  I'll  give  you  a  demonstration." 

"Fair  enough!"  said  Avery,  leading  the  way. 

Three  days  before  the  fight  Billy  Avery  pre 
sented  himself  at  the  office  of  the  promoter  of 
pugilistic  events — a  wise  young  man  of  Hebraic 
extraction. 

"Moe,"  said  Billy,  "have  you  made  any  ar 
rangements  about  the  scales  the  men  are  to 
weigh  in  on?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Goldstein.    "Why?" 

"Well,  this  is  a  special  occasion,"  said  Avery, 
"and  I  want  a  pair  of  scales  that  there  can't  be 
any  question  about.  I've  got  a  lot  of  money 
up  and  I  can't  afford  to  take  chances." 

"You  don't  want  to  use  your  own,  do  you?" 
asked  Moe  slyly. 

"No,  and  I  don't  want  to  use  Mike  Badger's, 
either ! ' '  snapped  Billy  angrily.  '  *  We  're  going 
to  be  at  weight,  right  enough,  but  we'll  just 
barely  make  it  and  that's  all.  It'll  be  so  close 
that  there  won't  be  any  fun  in  it,  and  that 
darned  Shylock  says  that  if  we  're  an  ounce  over 
he  '11  grab  the  five  thousand.  Now,  I  wish  you  'd 
write  a  letter  to  some  reputable  hardware  con 
cern  and  ask  'em  to  send  you  a  brand-new 

[78] 


ONE-THIKTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


weighing  machine  to  be  used  at  the  ringside. 
They  probably  have  an  expert,  too,  and  they 
might  be  willing  to  send  him  along.  I  want  the 
scales  tested  by  a  government  official  and  bal 
anced  by  a  man  who  hasn't  the  slightest  inter 
est  in  the  fight  either  way.  I'm  not  going  to 
monkey  with  'em  myself,  and  I  want  Badger  to 
keep  his  hands  off.  There  ain't  much  that  fel 
low  wouldn't  do  for  five  thousand  bucks!  Is 
that  a  fair  proposition?" 

"As  fair  as  a  June  day!"  replied  Goldstein. 
"I'll  write  a  letter  to  Messmore  &  Jones  imme 
diately.  ' ' 

Avery  smoked  a  cigar  while  the  letter  was 
written,  and  after  that  he  chatted  about  the  com 
ing  fight,  the  advance  sale,  the  probable  "cut," 
and  kindred  topics.  When  he  rose  to  go,  he 
picked  up  the  envelope  containing  the  letter. 

"I'll  drop  this  in  the  mail  chute  when  I  go 
out,"  he  said. 

The  next  day  the  office  boy  brought  Mr.  Gold 
stein  a  neatly  engraved  business  card,  bearing 
the  name  of  a  firm  of  national  reputation  as 
manufacturers  of  scales.  In  the  lower  left-hand 
corner  appeared  these  words : 

"Presented  by  Mr.  Henry  C.  Darling,  West 
ern  Eepresentative." 

Goldstein  tossed  the  card  over  to  Mike  Bad 
ger,  who  happened  to  be  present. 

"Let's  see  what  he  wants,"  said  Goldstein. 

"Mr.  Henry  C.  Darling"  proved  to  be  a  dap 
per  little  person,  with  a  close-cropped  beard  and 
nose  glasses.  He  spoke  with  the  crisp,  incisive 

[79] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


tones  of  a  business  man,  and  Mike  Badger,  sur 
reptitiously  running  his  thumb  nail  over  the 
pasteboard  which  he  held,  was  impressed.  An 
engraved  card,  to  ninety-nine  men  out  of  one 
hundred,  is  a  convincing  argument ;  an  embossed 
trade-mark  in  three  colors  in  the  upper  corner 
clinches  matters. 

"Mr.  Darling — Mr.  Badger,"  said  Goldstein. 

"I  beg  pardon — I  didn't  quite  catch  the 
name,"  said  the  visitor.  It  had  to  be  repeated, 
and  even  then  it  was  evident  that  it  meant  noth 
ing  to  the  Western  representative,  who  turned 
immediately  to  Goldstein. 

"I  happened  to  be  calling  on  Mr.  Messmore 
when  your  letter  arrived,"  said  Darling.  He 
produced  Goldstein's  letter  and  laid  it  upon  the 
desk.  "Mr.  Messmore  suggested  that  as  you 
needed  an  expert,  it  was  more  in  my  line  than 
his.  I  will  be  very  glad  to  accommodate  you.  If 
you  will  tell  me  where  you  wish  the  scales  deliv 
ered  and  when,  the  details  will  be  attended  to." 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  take  up  your  time " 

began  Goldstein. 

' '  Oh,  that 's  all  right ! ' '  chirruped  Mr.  Darling. 
"It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  do  it,  I  assure  you. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am — ah ! — rather  interest 
ed  in  the  manly  art  myself.  My  son  is  an  ama 
teur  boxer — you  may  have  heard  of  him?  Peter 
C.  Darling,  Chicago  Athletic  Club?  No?  Only 
sixteen  years  old,  but  clever  as  they  make  'em  I 
I  like  to  see  a  good  bout  when  I  can. ' ' 

"Of  course!"  said  Moe.  "Why  not?"  He 
reached  into  his  desk  and  brought  forth  a  ticket. 

[80] 


ONE-THIRTY-THKEE RINGSIDE 


"Here's  a  box  seat  for  the  show  Friday  night." 

Mr.  Darling  fairly  gushed  thanks  as  he  put 
the  ticket  carefully  away  in  his  pocketbook. 

"Very,  very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure!"  he  said. 
"Now,  it  is  understood  that  I  am  to  furnish  a 
new  weighing  machine  which  shall  be  tested  and 
certified  correct  by  the  Board  of  Weights  and 
Measures  on  Friday  afternoon.  I  will  then  take 
charge  of  it  myself  and  deliver  it  at  the  fight 
pavilion  that  night.  Is  that  satisfactory?" 

"Suits  me!"  said  Badger,  thumbing  the  card. 

Mr.  Darling  paused  at  the  door,  and  there 
were  traces  of  nervous  hesitation  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke. 

"May  I  suggest — ah — that  the  name  of  my 
firm — or  my  own  name — does  not  appear  in  the 
newspapers  ? "  he  asked.  ' '  This  is — ah — rather 
an  unusual  service,  and " 

' '  I  understand ! ' '  said  Moe  heartily.  ' '  You  '11 
be  kept  under  cover,  all  right.  Only  three  peo 
ple  need  to  know  who  you  are — the  other  one  is 
Avery. ' ' 

Mr.  Darling  seemed  immensely  relieved. 

"If  you  are  interested  in  seeing  the  scales 
tested,"  said  he,  "come  to  the  Bureau  of 
Weights  and  Measures  at  four  o'clock  on  Fri 
day  afternoon. ' ' 

"  I  '11  be  there, ' '  said  Mr.  Badger.  ' '  Moe,  you 
notify  Avery. ' ' 

Mr.  Goldstein  looked  after  his  visitor  with  a 
grin. 

"Ain't  it  funny  what  some  people  will  do  for 
a  free  fight  ticket?"  he  remarked.  "There's  a 

[81] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


traveling  man  whose  time  is  worth  money,  yet 
he's  willing  to  go  to  fifty  dollars'  worth  of 
trouble  to  get  a  twenty-dollar  seat!  Can  you 
beat  it?" 

"It  saves  paying  him  a  fee,"  said  the  frugal 
Badger.  * '  And  did  you  get  that  about  not  want 
ing  his  name  in  the  paper?  I'll  bet  he's  a  dea 
con  in  a  church  or  something,  when  he 's  home ! ' ' 


in 


The  official  testing  of  the  scales  took  place 
on  schedule  time.  The  shiny,  new  weigh 
ing  machine — of  the  portable  platform  variety 
— balanced  to  a  hair.  Mr.  Badger  almost  pre 
cipitated  a  fight  by  remarking  over  and  over 
again  that  an  ounce  might  mean  five  thousand 
dollars,  and  every  time  he  said  it  Avery  snarled. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  if  you  are  satisfied,"  said 
Mr.  Darling,  "we  will  ask  that  the  scales  be 
placed  under  lock  and  key  here  until  I  shall  call 
for  them  this  evening.  I  guarantee  that  they 
will  not  be  out  of  my  sight  from  that  time  until 
you  are  ready  to  use  them.  Is  that  satisfac 
tory?" 

"Perfectly!"  said  Mike  Badger,  and  Billy 
Avery  mumbled  something  under  his  breath. 

"Well,  old  top,"  chuckled  Badger  to  Avery, 
as  they  left  the  room,  "my  man  is  under  weight. 
How's  yours?" 

"We  may  have  to  sweat  him  a  bit,"  answered 
Avery  shortly,  "but  I'd  cut  off  one  of  his  legs 
before  I'd  let  you  have  that  five  thousand!" 

[82] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE — RINGSIDE 


"Cut  off  his  head,  instead,"  suggested  Bad 
ger  pleasantly.  "He  never  uses  that  when  he 
fights!" 

' '  You  make  me  sick ! ' '  growled  Avery. 

The  weight  of  the  contender  was  still  a  mys 
tery,  but  there  was  an  unconfirmed  rumor  that 
Moe  Goldstein — sworn  to  secrecy — had  been 
present  at  the  Healy  camp  on  Thursday  after 
noon  and  had  seen  the  challenger  raise  the  beam 
at  one  hundred  and  thirty-four  pounds.  This 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  flood  of 
Healy  money  which  appeared  as  if  by  magic. 

Shortly  after  the  doors  of  the  fight  pavilion 
were  opened  an  express  wagon  drove  up  to  the 
main  entrance  and  the  weighing  machine  was 
carefully  unloaded,  under  the  personal  super 
vision  of  Mr.  Henry  C.  Darling.  Moe  Gold 
stein,  who  was  standing  in  the  door,  cheerfully 
contemplating  the  long  line  of  humanity  stretch 
ing  away  from  the  general-admission  window, 
waved  his  cigar  at  Darling  and  grinned. 

"You're  here  early  enough,  I  see !"  remarked 
the  promoter. 

"Better  early  than  late!"  said  Mr.  Darling. 
"Is  there  a  room  where  we  can  lock  this  thing 
up  until  it's  wanted?  I  have  made  myself  per 
sonally  responsible  for  it." 

"Put  it  in  the  first  dressing  room,"  said  Moe. 
"You  can't  lock  the  door,  though,  except  from 
the  inside." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  "Western  represen 
tative"  was  alone  with  the  weighing  machine, 
behind  a  locked  door.  In  two  seconds  he  had 

[83] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


the  wooden  platform  unshipped  and  set  aside, 
exposing  the  levers  underneath.  These  levers, 
sensitive  to  the  touch  as  human  ingenuity  can 
make  them,  are  V  shaped  and  meet  in  the  center, 
forming  an  X,  the  short  lever  passing  under 
neath  the  long  one. 

Mr.  Darling  whipped  a  black  horse-hair  from 
his  pocket,  tested  it  carefully  for  strength,  and 
then  bound  it  about  both  arms  of  the  short  lever, 
some  three  inches  above  the  point  of  contact  in 
the  center.  Instead  of  tying  the  hair  in  a 
knot,  he  fastened  it  with  a  dab  of  beeswax,  re 
placed  the  floor  of  the  platform,  weighed  him 
self  carefully,  nodded  approvingly,  and  left  the 
room.  The  entire  operation  had  consumed  less 
than  a  minute.  The  next  time  that  Moe  Gold 
stein  looked  in  that  direction  Mr.  Darling  was 
standing  in  front  of  the  closed  door,  like  a  sen 
tinel  on  guard. 

Two  tremendous  roars  announced  the  entry 
of  the  gladiators,  naked,  save  their  socks  and 
bath  robes.  Behind  them  came  four  strong 
young  men,  carrying  the  weighing  machine,  Mr. 
Darling  trotting  behind  and  urging  them  to 
handle  it  as  they  would  a  crate  of  eggs. 

Biddy  Cline,  grinning  in  his  corner,  looked  up 
at  his  manager. 

"Here's  where  we  get  that  five  thousand!" 
he  said. 

In  silence  and  breathless  curiosity  the  house 
waited  the  weighing-in  ceremony. 

Mr.  Henry  C.  Darling,  fussy  and  important, 
fluttered  about  like  an  old  hen,  commanding 

[84] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


every  one  to  stand  back  while  he  demonstrated 
that  the  scales  balanced  to  a  hair.  At  a  signal, 
the  fighters  rose  from  their  corners  and  climbed, 
through  the  ropes,  their  handlers  trooping  after 
them. 

"Stand  back,  everybody!"  chirped  Mr.  Dar 
ling.  ' l  We  must  have  room  here !  Stand  back ! 
You  observe  that  the  scales  balance  perfectly. 
I  will  set  the  bush  poise  exactly  at  one  hundred 
and  thirty-three  pounds — no  more  and  no  less. 
On  the  dot.  So!  Now,  then,  gentlemen,  who 
goes  first?" 

Charlie  Healy,  who  had  been  removing  his 
socks,  slipped  his  bath  robe  from  his  shoulders 
and  stood  forth,  naked. 

"Might  as  well  get  it  over  with!"  he  said. 

Mike  Badger,  his  thin  arms  folded  over  his 
flat  chest,  flashed  a  keen,  appraising  glance  at 
the  challenger,  as  if  anticipating  the  verdict  of 
the  scales.  Healy 's  face  was  lean  and  leathery, 
and  his  cheek  bones  stood  out  prominently,  but 
he  had  not  the  haggard,  drawn  appearance  of 
a  man  who  had  sapped  his  vitality  by  making 
an  unnatural  weight,  and  his  muscular  arma 
ment  bulked  large  under  his  smooth,  pink  skin. 

"In  great  shape!"  thought  Badger.  "But 
he's  heavy,  good  Lord,  he's  heavy!  He  ain't 
anywhere  near  one-thirty-three!" 

Healy  stepped  gently  upon  the  scales  and 
dropped  his  hands  at  his  sides.  Mike  Badger 
bent  forward,  his  gimlet  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
notched  beam.  He  expected  it  to  rise  with  a 
bump,  instead  of  which  it  trembled  slightly,  rose 

[85] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


half  an  inch,  and  remained  there,  quivering. 

"Just  exactly!"  chirruped  Mr.  Darling. 
"Next!" 

Charlie  Healy  threw  his  hands  over  his  head 
with  a  wild  yell  of  triumph. 

"By  golly,  I  made  it!  I  made  it!"  he 
shouted ;  and  then,  as  if  carried  away  by  an  ex 
cess  of  feeling,  he  jumped  six  inches  in  the  air 
and  alighted  upon  his  heels  \vith  a  jar  that  made 
the  weighing  beam  leap  and  rattle,  and  brought 
a  sudden,  sharp  strain  upon  the  concealed 
levers — enough  of  a  strain,  let  us  say,  to  snap  a 
strand  of  horsehair  and  allow  it  to  fall  to  the 
floor.  Healy 's  action  was  natural  enough,  but 
it  was  his  jump  which  roused  Mike  Badger  to 
action  and  crystallized  his  suspicion.  He  had 
seen  that  sort  of  thing  before. 

"No,  you  don't!"  howled  Mike.  "You  ain't 
going  to  put  anything  like  that  across  on  me! 
I  want  to  look  at  those  scales ! ' ' 

The  "Western  representative"  bristled  with 
sudden  anger,  strutting  about  like  an  enraged 
bantam  rooster. 

"Preposterous!"  he  said.  "Examine  them 
yourself ! ' ' 

He  pushed  the  weighing  machine  over  toward 
Badger.  Mike  removed  the  wooden  platform 
in  a  twinkling  and  bent  over  the  levers.  That 
was  the  reason  he  did  not  see  Mr.  Darling  place 
the  sole  of  his  foot  upon  a  dab  of  beeswax  and 
the  horsehair  which  clung  to  it,  thus  removing 
the  only  bit  of  evidence. 

Sweating  and  swearing,  Mike  Badger  sought 
[86] 


ONE-THIKTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


earnestly  for  wads  of  chewing  gum  or  other  ex 
traneous  matter,  after  which  fruitless  quest  he 
demanded  that  Healy  weigh  again.  By  this 
time  the  challenger  was  in  his  corner,  calmly 
partaking  of  a  bowl  of  beef  tea. 

"Well,  I  should  say  we  won't  weigh  him 
again!"  said  Avery.  "You've  examined  the 
scales,  and  they're  all  right.  My  man  has  got  a 
pound  of  beef  tea  in  him  by  now.  He  made  the 
weight  at  the  time  set,  and  we  won't  weigh 
again.  Ain't  that  right,  Goldstein?" 
i  The  promoter  nodded. 

"Go  on  and  weigh  your  man,  Badger,"  he 
said.  "The  crowd  is  getting  restless." 

"But  I  tell  you  we've  been  jobbed!"  wailed 
Mike.  * '  Why,  look  at  that  fellow !  He 's  as  big 
as  a  house ! ' ' 

'  *  Forget  it ! "  growled  Avery.  ' '  My  boy  has 
been  at  weight  for  the  last  three  days !  You  saw 
him  weigh  yesterday,  didn't  you,  Moe?" 

"That's  right,  Mike,"  said  Goldstein. 

"I  dare  you  to  put  him  on  the  scales  again!" 
raved  Badger.  "I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dol 
lars  if  you'll  weigh  him  now!" 

"And  him  full  of  beef  tea?  I  should  say  you 
would!  G'wan  and  get  your  champion  on 
there!" 

Mr.  Henry  C.  Darling,  still  bristling  in  a 
quiet,  gentlemanly  manner,  stepped  forward  to 
adjust  the  plummet  on  the  notched  bar,  but  Mike 
swept  him  aside. 

"That'll  be  about  all  for  you!"  he  said 
brusquely.  "I'll  attend  to  this  myself!" 

[87] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


And  Billy  Avery  was  so  well  pleased  with  the 
turn  of  events  that  he  allowed  Mike  to  weigh 
his  own  man.  The  bar  did  not  rise  for  Cline. 
He  was  safe  by  a  full  pound  and  a  half. 

He  was  far  from  safe  after  the  fight  started, 
however.  Biddy  Cline,  tough  little  battler  that 
he  was,  found  himself  as  helpless  as  a  toy  in  the 
hands  of  the  challenger.  In  the  clinches,  which 
was  Biddy's  specialty,  Healy  worried  him  and 
tossed  him  about  like  a  rag  doll. 

"This  guy  is  strong  as  a  middle-weight!" 
panted  the  champion,  after  the  third  round. 
"See  the  way  he  hauls  me  around?  It's  a  job, 
Mike,  as  sure  as  you  live!" 

"We  can't  help  it  now,"  said  Badger. 
"You've  got  to  lick  him  if  it  kills  you!" 

Let  it  be  placed  to  Biddy's  credit  that  he 
did  his  honest  best  to  follow  out  instructions. 
He  set  a  slashing,  whirlwind  pace,  fighting  with 
the  desperation  of  one  who  feels  his  laurels  slip 
ping  away  from  him ;  but  Healy  met  him  consid 
erably  more  than  halfway,  and  after  the  tenth 
round  the  most  rabid  Cline  sympathizer  in  the 
house  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  end  was  only 
a  matter  of  time. 

The  championship  of  the  world  passed  in  a 
spectacular  manner  toward  the  end  of  the  fif 
teenth  round.  Cline,  knowing  that  he  had  been 
badly  beaten  thus  far,  summoned  every  ounce 
of  his  reserve  strength  and  hurled  himself  upon 
the  challenger  in  a  hurricane  rally,  hoping  to 
turn  the  tide  with  one  lucky  blow.  Healy,  cau 
tious,  cool,  and  steady  as  a  boxing  master, 

[88] 


ONE-THIRTY-THREE RINGSIDE 


waited  until  the  opening  came,  and  then  shot  his 
right  fist  to  the  point  of  the  chin.  The  little 
champion  reeled,  his  hands  dropped  at  his  sides, 
and  a  vicious  short  left  hook  to  the  sagging  jaw 
ended  the  uneven  battle. 

Biddy  Cline  took  the  long  count  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  and  a  dapper  gentleman  in  a 
box  seat  smiled  through  his  nose  glasses  and 
played  with  a  bit  of  horsehair  in  his  pocket. 
Such  a  trivial  thing  had  changed  the  pugilistic 
map. 

According  to  custom,  the  conqueror  offered 
his  hand  to  the  conquered  before  he  left  the 
ring.  Biddy  would  have  taken  it,  but  Mike 
Badger  restrained  him. 

1 1  Don 't  shake  with  him ! ' '  said  Mike.  1 1  You  Ve 
been  licked,  but  by  a  welter-weight. ' ' 

"You  think  anybody  will  believe  that?" 
cackled  Healy. 

4 1 '11  make   'em  before  I'm  through,"  said' 
'Mike  grimly. 

rv 

The  new  champion  ceased  in  the  midst  of  the 
pleasant  duty  of  inscribing  his  name  and  title 
upon  photographs. 

" Badger!"  he  said.  "What  does  he  want, 
Billy  ?" 

"Don't  know.    He's  coming  right  up." 

Mike  Badger  entered  and  helped  himself  to 
a  chair.  "You're  a  nice  pair  of  burglars,  ain't 
you?"  he  demanded. 

[89] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


"You're  a  sorehead,"  said  the  new  champion 
cheerfully.  "Are  you  still  harping  on  that 
weight  business  1  Everybody  in  the  country  is 
giving  you  the  laugh ! ' ' 

"Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you?"  said  Mike. 
"I've  been  doing  a  little  detective  work  lately. 
That  fellow — that  Darling — I've  been  on  his 
trail,  and  I  know  all " 

"I  didn't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  him,"  pro 
tested  Avery  quickly.  "Goldstein  wrote  a  let 
ter  to  a  hardware  firm  and " 

"And  you  posted  it,"  said  Mike.  "Eemem- 
ber  that  f  I  happened  to  keep  his  business  card, 
so  yesterday  I  wired  his  firm  asking  for  in 
formation.  Here's  the  answer."  He  tossed  a 
telegram  across  to  Avery. 

' '  It  says  there, ' '  remarked  Mr.  Badger,  * '  that 
no  such  man  is  known  to  the  concern.  It  was 
a  smooth  trick,  Billy,  but  it  won't  do.  I'm  sro- 
ing  to  show  you  fellows  up  from  one  end  of  thc 
country  to  the  other,  and  I'll  never  quit  hound 
ing  you  until  you  give  us  another  match — at  the 
proper  weight.  And,  what's  more,  we  still 
claim  the  championship. ' '  He  picked  up  one  of 
the  new  photographs  and  read  the  inscription 
scornfully.  "Lightweight  champion  of  the 
world ! "  he  said.  ' '  You  ain  't  a  lightweight  any 
more  'n  I  am ! ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Charlie  Healy  softly,  "they're 
still  pointing  me  out  on  the  street  as  the  man 
that  licked  Biddy  Cline!  That's  good  enough 
for  me." 

[90] 


THE  SPOTTED  SHEEP 


BILLY  ALLISON  was  not  exactly  a  black 
sheep  nor  yet  a  white  one.    Both  colors 
were  woven  into  the  fabric  of  his  char 
acter,  the  dark  spots  representing  the  bad  im 
pulses  and  the  white  spots  representing  the 
good  ones.    The  mixture  was  fairly  even.    The 
dark  spots  were  very  dark  and  the  white  spots 
very  white;  so  that  a  moral  snapshot  of  Billy 
Allison's  soul  would  have  resembled  a  piece  of 
shepherd's  plaid. 

Billy  avoided  any  struggles  with  his  con- 
(ence — and  barred  himself  from  taking  credit 
lor  the  white  spots — by  doing  always  and  under 
all  circumstances  the  first  thing  that  came  into 
his  head.  This  system  is  not  to  be  recommended 
to  other  young  men  with  more  money  than  they 
know  how  to  spend. 

"Billy  is  a  queer  proposition,"  said  old  Mr. 
Hawley,  who  had  been  Henry  Allison's  business 
associate  and  best  friend.  "I  can't  seem  to 
make  him  out.  There 's  a  fine  lovable  streak  in 
the  boy,  but  it  lays  right  up  against  a  streak  of 
downright  cussed  worthlessness.  What  makes 
me  so  mad  is  that  Billy  can  do  a  nice  thing  in  as 

[91] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


nice  a  way  as  anybody.  Look  at  that  little  gut 
tersnipe  he  picked  up  in  the  street  with  a  broken 
leg !  But  the  worst  of  Billy  is  that,  after  he 's 
done  something  to  make  you  proud  of  him,  he 
whips  right  round  and  does  something  to  make 
you  ashamed — something  that  makes  you  want 
to  give  him  a  good  cowhiding.  It's  all  Henry's 
fault.  He  never  should  have  left  so  much 
money  to  the  boy  without  tying  a  string  to  it 
somewhere.  It'll  be  the  ruination  of  Billy — if 
it  hasn't  been  already. " 

The  case  of  the  newsboy  with  a  broken  leg 
throws  a  strong  light  on  one  of  Billy's  whitest 
spots.  He  appeared  at  the  door  of  Mercy  Hos 
pital  one  evening  with  a  ragged  little  bundle  in 
his  arms. 

• '  Get  a  curve  on  you  1 "  he  commanded  briefly. 
' '  This  kid  has  a  broken  leg. ' ' 

It  was  pointed  out  to  Mr.  Allison  that  the  Re 
ceiving  Hospital  was  the  place  for  a  newsb 
with  a  compound  fracture  below  the  knee.   Bi: 
interrupted  angrily. 

"  You  ring  up  Fred  Hayes,"  said  he,  "and  tell 
him  that  Billy  Allison  wants  him  as  quick  as 
he  can  possibly  get  here.  Don't  forget — Billy 
Allison.  That '11  fetch  him  on  the  run.  ...  It's 
all  right,  kid.  We  '11  have  you  fixed  up  in  three 
shakes  of  a  lamb's  tail.  Leg  hurting  you 
much?" 

"Naw;  o'  course  not!"  grunted  the  small  suf 
ferer  with  sarcasm.  "I  wisht  you  had  it  for  a 
minute!  I  wisht Oh,  gee!" 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


call — it  is  rather  an  unusual  thing  for  an  emi 
nent  bone  specialist  to  leave  his  dinner  to  set  a 
gamin's  leg — and  he  thought  he  read  the  situa 
tion  at  a  glance. 

4 'How  did  this  happen,  Billy?"  said  he. 
"Speeding  again?  You'll  kill  somebody  one  of 
these  days  if  you're  not  more  careful." 

* '  Nix,  doc ;  nix ! ' '  The  patient  had  been  lis 
tening.  "You  got  him  wrong.  The  guy  what 
busted  me  leg  tore  out  a  mile  a  minute — he  beat 
it.  This  sport  comes  along  and  picks  me  up. ' ' 

"Oh!"  said  Doctor  Hayes,  and  looked  hard 
at  Billy,  who  blushed  and  mopped  his  thick  eye 
glasses  with  his  handkerchief. 

' '  Rats,  doc ! ' '  said  he,  much  embarrassed.  ' '  I 
couldn  't  leave  the  kid  there  in  the  street — might 
have  had  to  wait  an  hour  for  an  ambulance ;  and 
— well,  say,  did  you  ever  see  a  gamer  little 
rooster  in  your  life,  doc?  Not  a  whimper  out 
of  him,  by  George!  Not  a  tear!  I'd  like  to 
believe  I  'd  act  as  well  in  a  similar  fix. ' ' 

"You  wouldn't,"  said  the  doctor,  who  was  a 
truthful  soul. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Billy  quietly.  "Maybe 
that's  why  I  admire  gameness  in  others." 

As  he  was  placed  on  the  operating  table  in 
the  surgery  the  boy  opened  his  eyes. 

"Look  here,  doc,  are  you  going  to  put  me  to 
sleep?"  he  demanded. 

*  *  For  a  little  while,  sonny. ' ' 

The  boy  looked  at  Billy  Allison. 

'  *  Will  you  be  here  when  I  wake  up,  sport? '  *  he 
[93] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


asked.  "This  is  new  stuff  to  me.  Stick 
round." 

Billy  thought  of  his  engagement  with  a  lively 
lady  who  graced  the  vaudeville  stage,  but  some 
thing  in  the  boy's  eyes  held  him. 

"Yes,  kid;  I'll  be  here,"  said  Billy. 

The  newsboy  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"All  right,  doc,"  said  he.  "Shoot  the 
piece!" 

While  the  interne  was  administering  the  an 
aesthetic  Doctor  Hayes,  gowned  and  rubber- 
gloved,  sought  further  information. 

"What  do  you  want  done  with  him  after  I 
get  him  fixed  up,  Billy?  Shall  we  send  him 
home?" 

1 '  What  do  you  think  I  am ! "  said  Billy.  ' '  A 
piker?  Keep  him  here,  of  course!  Give  him 
that  front  room  with  the  windows — the  one  I 
had  the  last  time  I  took  the  jag  cure.  See  that 
he  has  everything  he  wants — special  nurse  and 
all." 

* '  Philanthropy  is  something  new  for  you,  isn't 
it?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Philanthropy  be  damned!"  said  Billy  hotly. 
"My  dad  was  a  philanthropist.  One  in  the 
family  is  enough.  Haven't  I  told  you  that  I 
like  this  kid  because  he's  game?  The  best  in 
your  old  hospital  is  none  too  good  for  him ;  and 
he'll  get  it  or  I'll  know  why!" 

"Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel "  said 

the  doctor.  "I  suppose  you  know  that  you're 
doing  a  foolish  thing,  Billy.  Nobody  knows 
who  hurt  the  boy;  but  you  brought  him  to  the 

[94] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


hospital,  and  if  one  of  those  thieving  ambulance 
chasers  gets  hold  of  this  you  may  be  sued  on 
suspicion.  I've  known  shyster  lawyers  to  do 
worse  things  than  that.  The  man  who  drives  an 
automobile  is  fair  game.'* 

"Let  'em  go  as  far  as  they  like,"  said  Billy. 
"I've  got  all  the  insurance  piled  on  to  that  car 
she'll  carry — liability  and  otherwise.  I  should 
worry ! ' ' 

"I'm  merely  suggesting  how  it  will  look  to 
the  boy's  people,"  said  the  doctor. 

"I'll  take  a  chance  on  the  kid,,"  said  Billy. 

While  the  event  was  fresh  in  his  mind  Allison 
retained  his  interest  in  his  protege,  calling  at 
the  hospital  four  times  during  the  first  week. 
During  this  period  the  gameness  of  Jakey 
Eosenblatt  was  Billy  Allison 's  favorite  topic — 
so  much  so  that  he  bored  all  his  friends  and  ac 
quaintances  with  his  enthusiastic  recitals. 

Incidentally  the  doctor's  suspicions  were  con 
firmed  when  Billy  met  Mannie  Eosenblatt, 
Jakey 's  eighteen-year-old  brother.  Mannie  was 
considerably  less  than  friendly  and  he  fixed  that 
amateur  philanthropist  with  a  cold  and  suspi 
cious  stare. 

"If  I  didn't  know  Jakey  wasn't  a  liar,"  said 
he,  "I'd  think  you  was  the  guy  that  run  over 
him.  I  don't  get  you  at  all.  What  are  you 
doin '  all  this  for  !  What 's  the  idea  ?" 

"What's  the  idea  of  what?"  asked  Billy. 

"All  this  swell  hospital  stuff!  The  kid  could 
have  gone  to  the  County  Hospital  for  nothing. " 

' '  Cheese  it,  Mannie ! ' '  said  Jakey  reprovingly. 
[95] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


"Don't  you  know  real  class  when  you  see  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Mannie  sullenly,  "I  don't  get 
him;  an'  I  declare  myself  now — I  won't  be  stuck 
for  no  hospital  bills." 

' '  You  needn  't  worry, ' '  said  Billy.  ' '  It  shan  't 
cost  you  a  cent. ' ' 

"It  hadn't  better!"  said  Mannie  ungra 
ciously,  and  departed,  leaving  Billy  midway  be 
tween  amusement  and  exasperation. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  mister," 
said  Jakey.  "Mannie,  he  says  that  nobody 
don't  never  do  anything  for  you  for  nothing, 
and  he 's  wondering  what  the  comeback  will  be. 
He 's  all  right  when  you  get  to  know  him,  Mannie 
is.  And,  say,  you  ought  to  see  him  scrap! 
He's  a  bear!" 

"So  I  should  judge,"  was  Billy's  dry  re 
sponse. 

Allison's  interest  in  the  youthful  Eosenblatt 
soon  waned,  as  did  most  of  his  fads.  It  died  a 
natural  death  before  Jakey  was  able  to  leave  the 
hospital,  and  soon  afterward  the  newsboy  and 
his  suspicious  brother  were  forgotten;  there 
were  so  very  many  other  things  to  claim  Billy's 
attention. 

n 

Old  Mr.  Hawley  had  complained  about  the 
terms  of  Henry  Allison's  will,  but  there  were 
others  who  found  no  fault  with  that  document — 
automobile  agents,  exclusive  tailors,  cafe  own 
ers,  waiters,  actresses,  and  certain  astute  and 
furtive  gentlemen  of  the  sporting  fraternity — 

[96] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


left-handed  beneficiaries  of  the  Allison  Estate 
through  the  open  hands  of  the  heir. 

The  automobile  agents  found  that  Billy  would 
usually  buy  a  new  car  if  it  could  be  tuned  up  to 
beat  his  most  recent  purchase;  the  tailors 
noticed  that  he  never  mentioned  prices  while 
selecting  fabrics,  and  respected  his  reticence 
save  when  rendering  their  quarterly  statement; 
the  cafe  owners  counted  the  nights  of  his  ap 
pearance  as  bright  ones;  the  waiters  forgot  to 
bring  the  change  and  went  unrebuked;  the 
actresses  loved  him  for  his  pelf  alone — poor 
Billy  was  not  attractive  in  a  physical  sense,  be 
ing  undersized  and  near-sighted ;  and  the  sport 
ing  gentlemen  sheared  him  remorselessly,  car 
ing  nothing  for  the  color  of  his  fleece. 

"Of  course,"  said  they  to  Billy,  "you  can't 
win  without  taking  a  chance,  and  any  man  who 
takes  a  chance  is  liable  to  lose  once  in  a  while. 
One  good  thing — your  money  is  circulating, 
ain't  it?  That's  better  than  burying  the  bank 
roll  in  a  tin  can  and  letting  it  get  moldy. ' ' 

"There's  something  in  that!"  said  Billy. 

The  sporting  gentlemen  carefully  neglected 
to  mention  that  it  is  also  possible  for  a  man  to 
lose  without  taking  a  chance  of  winning.  Black 
Jack  Logan  and  his  friends  were  experts  at 
arranging  speculative  transactions  of  this  sort. 

They  had  introduced  Billy  to  a  horseman  who 
owned  a  mare  that  could  not  possibly  lose,  but 
had  somehow  managed  to  achieve  the  impossible 
when  Billy  backed  her  heavily  to  win.  They 
had  put  him  in  touch  with  a  reformed  profes- 

[97] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


sional  gentleman  who,  through  sheer  love  of 
the  cards,  had  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded 
to  deal  a  few  private  sessions  at  faro  bank  in 
defiance  of  a  state  law  against  games  of  chance, 
which  law  was  in  no  way  violated.  They  had 
led  him  to  a  roulette  wheel,  which  was  so  exten 
sively  wired  for  electrical  control  that  the  au 
thorities  were  later  unable  to  split  it  up  for 
kindling  wood.  They  had  played  bridge  and 
poker  with  him  when  a  wink  or  a  cough  from  the 
dealer  presaged  a  miracle.  It  was,  they  agreed, 
a  shame  to  take  the  money,  but  a  greater  shame 
not  to  take  it. 

One  evening,  while  Billy  Allison  was  dining 
with  the  blonde — third  from  the  left  end  of  the 
line — four  men  surrounded  a  small  table  in  the 
back  room  at  Terry's  Tavern — four  rascals  who 
could  not  possibly  look  so  bad  as  they  really 
were  and  made  it  a  point  not  to  try. 

Black  Jack  Logan — otherwise  Alexander  B. 
Kirkman,  Sing  Sing  12378 — might  have  passed 
for  a  member  of  any  one  of  the  honorable  pro 
fessions  ;  and  very  often  did  so.  George — Kid 
— Smalley,  innocent  and  youthful  in  appear 
ance,  hid  a  world  of  wicked  experience  behind 
a  smooth  and  boyish  countenance.  Edward — 
Fatty — Emerson,  whose  specialty  was  imper 
sonating  retired  brewers  and  small-town  bank 
ers,  had  all  the  earmarks  of  a  solid  citizen. 
And  Peter — Three-Card — Davis  knew  how  to 
smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain  still. 

1 1  Now  that  we  're  all  here, ' '  said  Fatty  Emer 
son,  "what  is  it  to  be  this  time?" 

[98] 


THE    SPOTTED   SHEEP 


"A  phony  prize  fight,"  said  Black  Jack 
Logan. 

Emerson  shook  his  head. 

"Too  old,"  said  he.  "That's  almost  as  bad 
as  a  fake  foot  race.  Everybody  in  the  world  is 
on  to  it." 

Logan  laughed. 

"Fatty,"  said  he,  "I'm  surprised  at  you! 
You've  been  on  the  turf  long  enough  to  know 
that  the  old  games  are  the  best  games.  It's 
only  when  you  try  something  new  that  the 
sucker  gets  leery.  You  can  still  sell  gold  bricks 
on  the  New  Jersey  marshes;  and  last  week 
Shelly  McGuire  was  pinched  for  spieling  the 
nuts  inside  the  loop  in  Chicago.  He  would  have 
got  rich  if  the  bulls  had  let  him  alone.  People 
are  afraid  of  the  new  games,  but  they  fall  for 
the  old  ones." 

"Who's  the  sucker?"  asked  Emerson. 

"Young  fellow  round  town,"  said  Logan. 

' '  Father  left  him  money, ' '  said  Smalley. 

"A  barrel  of  it,"  supplemented  Davis. 

"Boob?"  asked  Emerson. 

' '  The  worst  in  the  world, ' '  said  Smalley. 

"Doesn't  know  a  thing,"  said  Davis. 

"How  do  we  pull  it?"  asked  Emerson. 

"The  same  old  way,"  said  Logan.  "You're 
the  only  one  of  the  bunch  he  hasn't  met  at  one 
time  or  another.  You'll  have  to  be  the  small- 
ftown  sport,  with  a  rube  champion  in  tow. 
We've  got  your  man  picked  out  already.  By 
the  way,  Kid,  did  you  dig  up  the  other  fighter?" 

[99] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"Not  yet,"  answered  Smalley;  "but  I've  got 
a  line  on  the  very  man  we  want. ' ' 

"That's  the  tough  part  of  the  frame-up,*' 
said  Emerson.  "The  worse  the  rube  fighter  is, 
the  better.  It 's  the  one  who 's  going  to  lose  that 
must  have  class." 

"Ever  hear  of  Young  Sullivan?"  asked 
Smalley. 

"Seen  him  fight  lots  of  times,"  grunted 
Fatty.  "With  proper  handling  he'd  be  right 
up  in  the  first  flight.  He'll  never  be  a  cham 
pion,  but  it'll  take  one  to  stop  him." 

"He's  the  bird,"  said  Smalley. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  can  ring  him 
in  on  a  thing  like  this  ? ' ' 

"In  a  minute!"  said  Smalley.  "Sullivan 
pulled  off  a  fake  here  six  months  ago — lost  a  de 
cision  to  Denver  Danny  Shea  to  get  a  return 
match  and  make  a  clean-up.  The  papers  got 
on  to  it  and  the  promoters  had  to  bar  him.  He 's 
so  flat  right  now  that  he'd  listen  to  any  propo 
sition,  murder  included,  for  a  fifty-dollar  note. 
Leave  it  to  me. ' ' 

"How  much  will  this  boob  bet?"  asked  Emer 
son. 

"If  he's  got  a  limit  we  haven't  struck  it  yet," 
said  Logan.  "  I  'm  figuring  to  take  him  for  the 
big  bunch  this  time. ' ' 

"It  listens  well,"  said  Emerson  critically. 
"Now  about  the  details " 

A  week  later  Billy  Allison,  killing  time  at  one 
of  his  clubs,  was  summoned  to  the  telephone. 

[100] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


"This  you,  Billy?"  said  a  voice.  "Logan 
speaking.  Going  to  the  fight  to-night?" 

' '  I  hadn  't  thought  of  it, ' '  said  Billy.  ' « Yes ; 
I  guess  I'll  be  there.  I  usually  take  in  all  the 
scraps. ' ' 

"Good!"  said  Logan.  "Meet  me  at  the 
Swinton  at  six.  We'll  have  dinner  and  go  out 
to  the  pavilion  together.  .  .  .  No,  Billy;  you're 
my  guest  this  time.  I  insist.  .  .  .  Oh,  forget 
itl  I've  got  box  seats — complimentaries. " 

"Pretty  easy  for  you!"  said  Billy.  "They 
make  me  pay  for  mine.  I'll  be  there  on  the 
dot." 

The  second  preliminary  event  was  in  progress 
when  Logan  and  Allison  arrived  at  the  ringside-. 
A  fat  gentleman,  rather  overdressed  and  plen 
tifully  decorated  with  off-color  diamonds,  was 
the  sole  occupant  of  the  box.  He  made  room  for 
the  newcomers  and  Billy  thanked  him. 

1 1  'Sail  right, ' '  said  he.     '  <  Keep  the  change. ' ' 

There  was  silence  until  the  end  of  the  round, 
when  .the  fat  man  grunted  disgustedly : 

"They've  got  an  awful  gall  asking  ten  dol 
lars  for  a  show  like  this !  In  my  town  they'd 
throw  a  pair  of  tramps  like  these  fellows  out 
of  the  ring." 

"Maybe  the  main  event  will  be  better,"  sug 
gested  Billy. 

"Duff  Eyan  and  Kid  Wilson?"  snorted  the 
fat  man.  ' '  A  couple  of  applewomen  could  beat 
'em!  Why,  say,  there's  a  boy  cleaning  out  my 
saloon  that  can  lick  'em  both  in  the  same  ring!" 

"He's  wasting  time  cleaning  out  saloons 
[101] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


then,"  said  Logan,  nudging  Billy.  "Byan  and 
Wilson  are  two  of  the  best  welters  in  the  coun 
try." 

"Huh!"  said  the  fat  man  scornfully.  "I'd 
like  to  bet  my  kid  can  lick  either  one  of  'em 
with  a  punch,  and  he's  only  a  lightweight  at 
that!" 

"You're  overlooking  a  fortune  then,"  said 
Logan.  "Lightweights  who  can  whip  welters 
are  mighty  scarce  in  this  country  at  present." 

The  fat  man  became  boastful. 

"Welters!"  he  scoffed.  "Say,  he  can  lick 
middleweights !  He's  done  it  lots  of  times, 
right  in  my  place.  This  boy  has  never  had  a 
professional  fight  in  his  life — never  seen  the 
inside  of  a  ring.  As  for  training,  he  wouldn't 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word  unless  you 
showed  it  to  him  in  a  dictionary;  but  I'll  bet  he 
could  step  in  just  as  he  is  and  lick  all  these 
fellows.  Yes,  sir;  give  him  a  close  shave  and 
a  shampoo  and  he  'd  be  ready ! ' ' 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  do  it,"  said  Billy 
skeptically. 

"Well,  my  money  says  he  can!  Here's  my 
card — Al  J.  Wenger,  Wines  and  Liquors, 
Wholesale  and  Eetail.  Drop  in  if  you're  pass 
ing  through  my  town.  You  '11  be  treated  right. ' ' 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  Billy. 

"I'd  bring  the  kid  down  here,"  continued  the 
fat  man,  "if  I  thought  I  could  get  any  kind  of 
a  match  for  him.  I've  talked  with  some  of  the 
sports  and  the  promoters,  and  they  all  say  he 
wouldn't  be  a  drawing  card  without  a  reputa- 
[102] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


tion.  They  wanted  him  to  fight  some  of  these 
pork-and-beaners  first ;  but  if  I  can't  get  a  good 
man  for  him  I'll  pass  it  up." 

Kid  Wilson  planted  his  justly  celebrated 
right  cross  on  the  point  of  Duff  Byan's  jaw  in 
the  ninth  round  and  the  evening's  entertain 
ment  was  over.  Logan  chuckled  as  he  climbed 
into  Billy  Allison's  runabout. 

"Queer  bird,  that  saloon  keeper,"  said  he. 
* '  The  joke  of  it  is  that  this  fellow  he  was  talking 
about  may  be  a  real  fighter  at  that — a  comer. 
I'd  like  to  discover  a  lightweight  who  could 
lick  welters  and  middles!  Do  you  know  how 
much  I  could  make  with  him  in  a  year  f ' ' 

"Couldn't  say,"  answered  Billy.  "Quite  a 
sum,  I  suppose." 

"Not  less  than  seventy-five  thousand  dol 
lars,"  said  Logan  calmly. 

"Whew!    So  much  as  that?" 

"That's  the  lowest  estimate.  I've  half  a  no 
tion  to  write  this  roughneck  saloon  keeper  and 
tell  him  to  bring  his  man  down  here.  We  can 
look  him  over  in  private — have  him  spar  with  a 
few  good  boys ;  and  if  he 's  any  good  I  can  get 
him  a  match  with  a  man  where  he  '11  be  a  short- 
ender  in  the  betting." 

' '  Fine ! ' '  said  Billy  enthusiastically.  ' '  Here 's 
the  card.  Get  in  touch  with  this  fellow  and  let 
me  know  how  it  comes  out. ' ' 

* '  You  bet  I  will !  I  want  your  opinion  of  him, 
Billy.  Mind  you  don't  say  a  word  about  it  to 
any  of  your  friends.  It's  like  a  quiet  tip  on  a 
race  horse — tell  your  bosom  pal  and  you've  told 

[103] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


the  whole  town !  You  've  no  idea  how  informa 
tion  of  this  sort  circulates,  and  this  is  one  melon 
we  want  to  keep  to  ourselves." 

"  If  it's  ripe,  "said  Billy. 

"Of  course,"  said  Logan.  "A  green  melon 
is  the  only  one  you  can  afford  to  be  generous 
with." 

As  Legan  was  preparing  for  bed  that  night 
the  telephone  rang. 

"Yes,  this  is  Jack.  .  .  .  Nice  work,  Fatty. 
.  .  .  Oh,  hook,  line  and  sinker!  Didn't  we  tell 
you  he  was  easy?" 

m 

"Well,  Billy,  what  do  you  think  of  Wenger's 
lightweight  champion?"  Logan  and  Allison 
were  standing  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the  door 
of  a  private  gymnasium  frequented  by  boxers 
and  their  satellites.  They  had  just  witnessed 
the  try-out  of  Mr.  Wenger's  battling  janitor. 

"Think  of  him!"  ejaculated  Billy.  "Why, 
he's  a  dub — a  joke!  He  doesn't  know  the  first 
thing  about  boxing — or  fighting,  either,  for  that 
matter.  I  believe  I  could  stop  him  in  two 
rounds  myself,  cigarette  heart  and  all!" 

"I  believe  you  could,  Billy,"  said  Logan. 
"Where  Wenger  ever  got  the  idea  that  this 
fellow  is  a  fighter  is  more  than  I  know.  If  he 
ever  whipped  any  middleweights  he  did  it  with 
a  bung  starter  when  they  were  looking  the 
other  way.  Well,  the  stuff  is  off.  I  wouldn't 
ask  anybody  to  give  him  a  match  on  the  strength 
of  the  showing  he  made  to-day." 
[104] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


The  street  door  opened  and  Mr.  Al  J.  Wenger 
appeared,  fat,  cheerful  and  buoyant  as  ever. 

"Well?"  said  he  with  a  rising  inflection,  his 
manner  challenging  an  adverse  verdict. 

"I'm  sorry,  Wenger,"  said  Logan.  "That 
boy  isn't  a  fighter.  He  doesn't  know  his  right 
hand  from  his  left." 

Wenger  snorted  loudly. 

"What  can  you  tell  about  him,  just  seeing 
him  once?"  said  he.  "He  ain't  a  cream-puff 
boxer,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  He  don't 
know  anything  about  sparrin'  for  points,  and 
they  told  him  he  wasn't  to  hurt  this  boy.  Then 
he  hadn't  ever  had  any  gloves  on  before,  and 
they  bothered  him " 

Wenger  paused,  and  Logan  shook  his  head 
and  turned  away.  The  fat  man  whirled  sud 
denly  on  Allison. 

"What  do  you  think  about  him?"  he  de 
manded. 

Billy  tossed  his  cigarette  into  the  gutter  and 
smiled  at  Wenger. 

"I  could  be  arrested  for  telling  you  what  I 
think  of  him,"  said  he  pleasantly.  "Any  pork- 
and-beaner  in  the  country  could  make  him  jump 
out  of  the  ring." 

Mr.  Wenger 's  round  face  suddenly  became 
purple. 

"A  lot  you  know  about  fighters!"  he  cried. 
"You  take  one  look  at  my  boy  and  tell  me  he 
ain  't  any  good,  eh  ?  He  '11  jump  out  of  the  ring, 
will  he?"  Wenger  plunged  his  hand  into  a 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  thick  roll  of  bills,  which 
[105] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


he  waved  excitedly  under  Billy's  nose.  "I'll 
bet  you  any  part  of  what's  here  you  can't  find 
a  lightweight  that'll  lick  him  in  a  real  fight! 
Any  part  of  it,  if  you  know  so  much!  Now 
then,  put  up  or  shut  up !" 

' '  Grab  him ! ' '  prompted  Logan  softly.  ' '  It 's 
like  finding  the  money.'! 

"I  don't  want  to  rob  you,"  Billy  began. 

Wenger  hooted  scornfully. 

"Don't  let  that  bother  you!  You  ain't 
a-goin'  to  rob  anybody,  Clarence!  Here's  my 
bank  roll,  and  there's  plenty  more  where  this 
comes  from  that  says  my  boy  can  lick  any  light 
weight  in  the  country.  We  don 't  bar  anybody. 
"We  ain't  afraid  of  anybody.  There  ain't  any 
thing  yellow  about  us  but  our  money.  If  you've 
got  any  sporting  blood  now's  the  time  to  show 
it.  Put  up  or  shut  up ! " 

"It's  a  cinch!"  whispered  Logan.  "Don't 
let  him  get  away  with  it !" 

"I  don't  intend  he  shall,"  said  Billy  coolly. 
"As  I  understand  the  proposition,  I  have  the 
right  to  nominate  any  lightweight  I  please!" 

"Anybody  at  all!"  exclaimed  Wenger,  osten 
tatiously  thumbing  his  roll  of  currency. 

"Public  fight?"  questioned  Billy. 

"I  don't  care,"  blustered  Wenger.  "My 
boy '11  fight  in  a  barn,  down  a  well  or  inside  a 
Saratoga  trunk!  Any  old  place  where  there's 
room  enough  for  the  other  fellow  to  fall  will 
suit  him  fine." 

''Better  pull  it  off  in  private,"  suggested 
[106] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


Logan.    "It  wouldn't  do  to  have  the  news 
papers  get  hold  of  it ! " 

' '  Eight  you  are ! ' '  agreed  Billy.  '  *  The  papers 
have  had  enough  fun  with  me  already." 

"A  private  fight  goes,"  assented  Wenger. 

"Very  well,"  said  Billy  briskly.  "Mr. 
Wenger,  if  you  will  count  that  money  you  are 
waving  round  so  carelessly  I  will  post  a  certi 
fied  check  to  cover  it.  Inside  of  two  days  I  will 
notify  you  of  my  selection." 

"Fair  enough!"  said  Mr.  Wenger  heartily. 
"Fair  enough!  I  guess  you're  a  true  sport 
after  all." 

"I  feel  more  like  a  burglar,"  said  Billy. 

Mr.  Wenger  laughed  loudly. 

* '  You  don 't  think  very  much  of  my  boy, ' '  said 
he;  "but  you  may  change  your  mind  about  him 
later.  Well" — and  Wenger  offered  his  hand 
with  a  great  show  of  cordiality — "an  even 
break;  and  may  the  best  man  win!" 

"May  the  best  man  win!"  repeated  Billy. 

An  hour  later  Logan  and  Allison  sat  at  lunch 
in  a  downtown  grill.  Billy's  usually  cheerful 
countenance  wore  an  expression  of  annoyance. 

"Cheer  up!"  chuckled  Logan.  "You  don't 
look  to  me  like  a  man  who  has  just  picked  up 
ten  thousand  dollars. ' ' 

"Confound  it,  that's  just  the  point!"  fumed 
Billy.  "Who  would  have  thought  the  chump 
would  bet  so  much?  I  wouldn't  mind  taking  a 
few  hundred  away  from  him  just  to  teach  him 
a  lesson,  but  ten  thousand !  Whew ! ' ' 

[107] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


"Cold  feet?"  asked  Logan,  eying  Billy  over 
the  rim  of  his  glass. 

"You  know  better  than  that.  I  never  have 
cold  feet  on  a  betting  proposition, ' '  boasted  the 
lamb. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Logan. 

"It's  only  that  I  hate  to  bet  that  much  money 
on  a  cinch,"  explained  Billy. 

"I  wouldn't  let  that  bother  me,"  said  Logan. 
' '  You  '11  pardon  me,  Billy,  but  I  'm  an  older  man 
than  you  are  and  I've  seen  more  of  the  world. 
If  they  have  invented  any  method  of  keeping 
a  fool  and  his  money  together  I  haven't  heard 
of  it.  This  man  Wenger  might  as  well  lose  his 
ten  thousand  to  you  as  to  some  one  else;  for 
lose  it  he  will.  He's  one  of  the  kind  that's  born 
every  minute.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  have  yon 
thought  of  any  good  lightweight  you  can  get? 
You'll  want  a  topnotcher,  you  know.  There's 
no  sense  in  taking  chances." 

"I  was  thinking  you  might  suggest  some 
one,"  said  Billy. 

Logan  gave  a  very  fair  imitation  of  a  man  in 
deep  thought. 

"I'd  hate  to  advise  you,  Billy,"  said  he  at 
length.  ' '  Then,  again,  I  don 't  know  what  fight 
ers  are  in  town.  How  would  it  do  if  we  called 
up  Smalley — you  remember  that  little  chap  we 
met  at  the  race  track?  Smalley  has  a  line  on 
all  the  pugs  and  his  advice  would  be  invaluable. 
Speaking  of  him,  why  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea 
to  have  Smalley  make  the  arrangements  for 
you?  If  you  should  go  to  a  fighter  and  hire 
[108] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


him  to  take  part  in  a  private  scrap  the  first 
thing  he'd  do  would  be  to  run  to  the  sporting 
editors  with  it.  They're  all  crazy  after  pub 
licity — every  one  of  'em.  You  want  to  keep 
this  fight  under  cover,  don't  you?" 

"You  bet!"  said  Billy  fervently.  "When 
can  we  get  hold  of  Smalleyf  " 

IV 

"I  ain't  what  you  might  call  a  partickler  guy, 
Smalley.  The  reg'lar  run  of  the  cards  is  good 
enough  for  me ;  but  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
has  to  sneak  up  an  alley  and  put  on  me  trunks 
in  a  horse's  bedroom.  It  ain't  any  of  my  busi 
ness,  of  course;  but  what's  the  idea  of  pulling 
off  this  hippodrome  in  a  barn?" 

The  light  of  a  single  lantern  flickered  on  the 
walls  of  a  box  stall  and  picked  the  speaker  out 
of  the  darkness,  throwing  his  battered  features 
into  strong  relief. 

Young  Sullivan  could  never  have  been  con 
sidered  handsome ;  one  hundred  battles  had  not 
improved  his  appearance.  There  was  a  deep 
dent  where  the  bridge  of  his  nose  should  have 
been ;  one  eye  was  slightly  askew,  giving  to  half 
of  his  face  an  oriental  aspect ;  and  his  left  ear 
was  of  the  cauliflower  variety,  though  more 
closely  resembling  a  sun-dried  abalone.  Minor 
marks  of  conflict  lay  thick  between  brow  and 
chin;  for  he  who  by  brute  force  hammers  his 
way  to  prominence  is  hammered  in  turn,  and 

[109] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


Young  Sullivan  had  dodged  very  few  right 
counters  while  pounding  out  a  career. 

By  reason  of  this  contempt  for  punishment  he 
was  known  as  one  of  the  stumbling-blocks  in 
the  lightweight  division — a  dogged  youngster 
who  would  take  a  dozen  heavy  blows  without 
flinching  for  the  sake  of  handing  one;  and 
Sullivan's  single  punch  usually  evened  the 
score. 

"Why  all  this  soft-pedal  stuff ? "  persisted  the 
fighter.  "You  ain't  afraid  of  a  pinch,  are 
you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Kid  Smalley,  who, 
after  the  fashion  of  all  chief  seconds  and 
handlers,  was  stripped  to  his  shirt  sleeves. 
"Certainly  not.  We  just  want  to  be  sure  it's 
private — that's  all." 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  grinned  Young  Sulli 
van.  "You  wouldn't  want  any  witnesses  if  you 
was  rolling  a  drunk  or  cracking  a  safe,  and 
this  is  going  to  be  worse.  Private,  eh?  Well, 
you  can't  make  it  any  too  private  for  me.  It 
wouldn't  do  me  repitation  any  good  if  the  gang 
heard  that  an  unknown  knocked  me  out  in  a 
punch.  Who's  the  sucker?" 

"You  want  to  know  too  much,"  said  Smalley 
curtly.  "You'll  get  your  dough  as  soon  as  it's 
over — one  hundred  bones  for  taking  a  slap  on 
the  jaw.  That 's  good  enough  for  you,  ain  't  it  ? " 

"Good  enough  if  you  say  so.  I  ain't  prying 
into  your  business.  I  just  wanted  to  know — 
that's  all." 

"Curiosity  has  killed  better  men  than  you," 
[110] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


said  Smalley.  ''You  go  through  with  the  pro 
gram;  that's  all  you've  got  to  do.  Remember 
now — no  boxing  and  no  stalling.  Pull  it  off 
just  the  way  you  rehearsed  it.  The  other  fel 
low  is  so  bad  that  if  the  fight  should  go  a  couple 
of  rounds  even  a  blind  man  could  see  it  was  a 
frame.  We  Ve  got  to  do  it  quick.  Get  in  there ; 
swing  wild  a  few  times,  poke  your  jaw  into 
one,  and  flop.  Don't  get  up  at  the  count  of  ten 
either.  Don't  get  up  at  all.  We '11  carry  you  to 
the  corner  and  work  on  you  for  a  while,  and 
then " 

Sullivan  interrupted  eagerly : 

"I'll  open  me  eyes  and  say:  'Who  threw  that 
brick?'  " 

"You're  a  great  little  actor,"  sneered  Kid 
Smalley ; ' '  but  this  is  no  comedy  part.  The  less 
you  say  the  better." 

"Oughtn't  I  to  have  a  alibi?"  asked  the 
fighter  anxiously.  "Can't  I  say  something 
about  holding  this  bird  too  cheap  and  never 
training  a  lick  for  him?" 

"That  would  be  fine!"  was  the  sarcastic  re 
joinder.  "Lovely!  Here,  I've  told  the  sucker 
that  you're  in  the  pink  of  condition  and  ready 
to  put  up  the  fight  of  your  life — and  you'd  make 
me  out  a  liar  for  the  sake  of  an  alibi!  Listen 
to  me  and  get  this  through  your  thick  head — if 
you  can:  You're  not  paid  for  making  any  expla 
nations — savvy?  You're  paid  for  taking  a  poke 
on  the  jaw  and  doing  a  Eip  Van  Winkle.  After 
this  fellow  lands  his  right  swing  you're  cast  for 
the  part  of  Sleeping  Beauty.  Do  you  get  me?" 
[Ill] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


The  ring  has  its  traditions  and  they  die  hard. 
One  of  them  provides  that  for  every  defeat 
there  must  be  a  plausible  excuse.  Lack  of 
training,  a  broken  hand,  a  crooked  referee,  a 
chance. blow — those  are  the  staple  explanations 
of  the  loser. 

Young  Sullivan  sighed  and  drew  a  soiled 
sweater  over  his  bare  shoulders. 

"You're  the  doctor."  He  spoke  heavily  and 
with  bitterness.  "But,  all  the  same,  somebody 
ought  to  alibi  for  me — getting  put  away  by  a 
stiff  like  this!" 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Smalley  soothingly. 
"Your  spotless  reputation  shan't  suffer.  I 
promise  you  that.  Making  an  alibi  that  will 
stick  is  the  best  thing  I  do.  Now  then,  profes 
sor,  if  you're  ready  we  will  proceed  to  the 
slaughter. ' ' 

"Yeh;  let's  get  it  over!"  growled  Young 
Sullivan. 

Smalley  picked  up  a  bucket  and  a  large  towel 
and  led  the  way  out  of  the  box  stall.  As  they 
stumbled  down  a  dark  passageway  the  fighter 
fired  the  last  hopeless  shot  in  defence  of  his 
professional  reputation. 

"Couldn't  I  say  I  was  doped?"  he  asked. 

"  No ! "  hissed  Smalley.  ' '  You  can 't  say  any 
thing!" 

He  found  a  doorknob  in  the  dark  and  a  flood 
of  light  burst  on  them.  The  ring  had  been 
pitched  in  the  center  of  a  large,  bare  room, 
which  at  the  first  glance  seemed  to  be  empty; 
,but  as  Smalley  entered  there  was  a  sudden 

[112] 


THE    SPOTTED   SHEEP 


bustle  in  a  far  corner  and  Mr.  Al  J.  Wenger  ap 
peared,  escorting  his  champion.  The  latter,  a 
low-browed,  shock-headed  youth,  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but  shuffled  awk 
wardly  in  the  wake  of  his  fat  sponsor. 

Mr.  Wenger  had  dressed  his  managerial  part 
with  great  care.  A  pink  silk  undershirt  adorned 
the  upper  part  of  his  person ;  a  bath  towel  was 
draped  about  his  neck;  his  lavender-striped 
trousers  were  rolled  above  his  shoetops,  and 
from  a  hip  pocket  peeped  the  glass  stopper  of  a 
bottle  of  smelling  salts. 

At  the  same  time  four  men,  who  had  been 
conversing  in  low  tones,  left  another  corner  and 
moved  toward  the  ringside,  where  they  took 
seats. 

Young  Sullivan  paused  long  enough  to  favor 
his  antagonist  with  a  ferocious  scowl,  which  was 
returned  with  interest ;  then  he  crawled  through 
the  tapes.  His  glance  next  fell  on  the  four  men 
seated  outside  the  ring;  and  he  remained  stand 
ing,  staring  at  them  until  Smalley  pushed  him 
into  his  chair. 

Immediately  Mr.  Wenger  busied  himself  with 
the  time-honored  preliminaries  of  battle.  He 
shook  the  new  gloves  out  of  their  pasteboard 
box,  examining  each  one  with  great  care.  He 
fingered  the  soft  bandages  on  Young  Sullivan 's 
hands  and  pronounced  them  satisfactory.  He 
sliced  an  orange  and  offered  a  bit  of  it  to  his 
gladiator,  who  refused  it  with  scorn;  and  he 
tied  a  small  American  flag  in  his  corner  of  the 
ring. 

[113] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


These  maneuvers  would  have  amused  Young 
Sullivan  had  he  seen  them,  but  he  was  still  star 
ing  at  the  four  spectators. 

Kid  Smalley,  engaged  in  "breaking"  the 
new  gloves  to  take  the  stiffness  out  of  them,  re 
ceived  a  sharp  poke  in  the  ribs. 

"Say,"  whispered  Young  Sullivan,  "which 
one  is  the  sucker?" 

' '  The  fellow  on  this  end, ' '  answered  Smalley. 

The  fighter  showed  his  teeth. 

"Nix!"  said  he.  "You  can't  hand  that  to 
me.  How  long  do  you  think  I've  been  round 
this  town,  not  to  know  a  con  man  like  Logan 
when  I  see  him  f  If  he 's  mixed  up  with  a  frame 
it  ain't  on  the  sucker  end,  Smalley.  I  know 
Three-Card  Davis  too;  so  you  might  as  well 
tell  me,  because  I'll  find  it  out  anyway." 

Kid  Smalley,  realizing  the  truth  of  this  re 
mark,  surrendered  at  discretion. 

"It's  the  shrimp  with  the  glasses,"  said  he. 
"The  fellow  with  the  stop  watch  is  a  pal  of  his. 
We  let  him  act  as  stakeholder  and  timekeeper  so 
as  to  make  it  look  good." 

"Oh,  that's  it!"  said  the  fighter.  "Well,  I 
just  wanted  to  know." 

"Now  that  you  know,"  growled  Smalley, 
"you'd  better  forget  it.  Some  things  ain't 
healthy  to  talk  about." 

Young  Sullivan  grunted — a  noncommittal 
sort  of  grunt,  which  might  have  expressed  as 
sent,  doubt  or  defiance.  After  that  he  sat  star 
ing  straight  in  front  of  him.  When  the  time 
came  he  extended  his  hands  for  the  gloving 
[114] 


THE   SPOTTED   SHEEP 


process,  but  what  aid  he  rendered  in  the  opera 
tion  was  purely  mechanical. 

Having  finished  with  his  man  Mr.  Wenger 
stepped  briskly  across  the  ring  to  the  spectators. 

"Still  think  youVe  got  a  cinch,  do  you?" 
said  he  to  Billy,  who  nodded  in  reply. 

Wenger  drew  out  another  roll  of  currency. 

"Here's  the  stuff  that  talks!"  said  he. 

Billy  shook  his  head. 

"The  bet  is  big  enough  as  it  stands,"  said 
he.  * '  Not  another  nickel ! ' ' 

He  held  to  this  in  spite  of  Wenger 's  bluster 
and  sarcasm  and  Logan's  whispered  advice. 

"You're  a  hot  sport!"  said  Wenger.  "You 
say  you've  got  a  cinch,  but  you're  afraid  to  bet 
on  it!" 

"Not  afraid,"  corrected  Billy;  "merely  un 
willing.  My  man  is  ready,  Wenger.  Don't  de 
lay  the  game." 

"Cold  feet!"  growled  Smalley  to  Young 
Sullivan  as  Wenger  retreated  to  his  corner,  still 
waving  his  roll  of  bills. 

' '  Huh ! ' '  remarked  Young  Sullivan. 

Three-Card  Davis  rose,  removed  his  hat  and 
coat,  and  ducked  under  the  ropes,  with  a  finger 
crooked  at  each  corner — the  mark  of  the  referee 
the  world  over. 

The  fighters  advanced  to  the  center  of  the 
ring  for  their  instructions — Wenger 's  champion 
open-mouthed  and  curious;  Young  Sullivan 
apathetic  and  preoccupied,  meditatively  squint 
ing  at  vacancy  over  the  referee's  shoulder. 

"No  claim  of  foul  will  be  allowed  unless  the 
[115] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


man  is  disabled,'*  finished  Davis.  "Go  to  your 
corners ! ' ' 

"All  set?"  called  Freddy  Van  Pelt,  amateur 
timekeeper  and  stakeholder.  ..."  Time ! ' ' 

At  the  word  Mr.  Wenger 's  champion  stepped 
cautiously  out  of  his  corner.  He  had  been  as 
sured  and  reassured  that  no  harm  could  come  to 
him;  but  in  spite  of  this  comforting  thought 
there  was  something  disconcerting  in  the  sin 
ister  expression  on  the  professional's  face — 
something  alarming  in  his  steady,  flat-footed  ad 
vance,  chin  low  on  his  breast  in  battle  crouch, 
left  hand  well  extended,  and  the  annihilating 
right  fist  held  far  back,  like  a  thunderbolt  in 
leash. 

"Don't  stop  to  shake  hands!"  yelled  Mr. 
Wenger.  "This  ain't  no  pink  tea!  Pile  right 
into  him,  boy !  Fight  him  off  his  feet ! ' ' 

The  unknown  hesitated  for  an  instant ;  then, 
spurred  on  by  a  roar  from  his  corner,  hurled 
himself  blindly  at  his  antagonist.  In  the  same 
instant  Young  Sullivan  took  two  quick  steps — 
one  forward,  the  other  slightly  to  the  left — and 
with  the  second  step  came  a  thudding  impact 
of  bone  and  leather  against  an  unprotected  jaw. 
Mr.  Wenger 's  champion  reeled  and  then  toppled 
slowly  backward,  striking  the  floor  with  a  crash. 

"There,  you  crook!"  snarled  Young  Sulli 
van,  menacing  the  referee  with  a  doubled  fist. 
"Call  that  a  foul— if  you  dare!" 

Three-Card  Davis  did  not  call  it  anything. 
His  nimble  brain  was  racing  to  adjust  itself  to 
altered  conditions,  but  as  yet  speech  was  beyond 

[116] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


him.  He  could  only  gape  at  the  limp  figure 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  floor. 

In  the  astounded  silence  there  rose  the  some 
what  too  cheerful  voice  of  the  official  time 
keeper,  counting  off  the  seconds  as  prescribed 
by  the  late  Marquis  of  Queensberry. 

*  *  Eight— nine He 's  out !  You  win,  Billy ; 

and  here 's  the  money !  Hooray ! ' ' 

1  'I  say,  Wenger,"  called  the  winner  as  he 
stuffed  the  working  capital  of  the  Logan-Emer 
son  combination  into  his  pocket, ' '  I  owe  you  an 
apology.  He  didn't  jump  out  of  the  ring — there 
wasn't  time.  .  .  .  Great  Scott,  Freddy!  Wen 
ger 's  out  too!" 


Henri,  head  waiter  at  Tortoni's,  was  far 
too  polite  to  arch  his  eyebrows  at  sight  of  a 
sweater  and  a  cauliflower  ear ;  so  he  bowed  low 
to  Billy  Allison  and  led  the  way  swiftly  to  a 
private  room.  On  the  other  hand  Young  Sulli 
van  had  never  before  met  a  head  waiter  face  to 
face;  so  the  surprised  interest  was  mutual. 

Billy  gave  the  order  as  briefly  as  possible, 
and  when  they  were  alone  he  came  quickly  to 
the  business  at  hand,  speaking  a  language  the 
fighter  could  understand. 

"Kid,"  said  he,  "there  was  a  que-er  kick  to 
that  little  show  of  ours  the  other  night — a  few 
things  I  haven't  been  able  to  figure  out.  The 
way  some  of  my  friends  acted  after  that  knock 
out  rather  surprised  me.  You'd  have  thought 

[117] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


they  suspected  me  of  putting  one  over  on  Wen- 
ger." 

Young  Sullivan  gaped  incredulously. 

"Ain't  you  wise  to  it  yet?"  he  demanded. 

"Wise  to  what?" 

"Gee,  but  you  are  easy!"  exclaimed  the 
fighter.  "Why,  I  thought  you'd  tumble  to  it 
the  minute  it  came  off.  Didn't  you  know  that 
you  was  up  against  a  frame  I ' ' 

"A  frame!"  ejaculated  Billy.  "Why,  man 
alive,  I  won !  How  could  it  have  been  a  frame  ? ' ' 

Young  Sullivan  laughed. 

"Sure,  you  won,"  said  he;  "but  the  way  they 
had  it  fixed  up  I  was  to  take  a  poke  on  the  jaw 
and  go  out.  Then  you'd  have  lost,  and " 

"They!"  repeated  Billy.  "Whom  do  you 
mean  by  'they'?" 

"That  whole  crooked  outfit — Logan  and 
Smalley  and  Davis.  The  fat  guy  and  the  other 
fighter  was  in  it  too." 

"Not  Logan!"  cried  Billy.  "Why,  it  can't 
be !  I  Ve  known  him  for  years ' ' 

"And  it's  cost  you  money,"  supplemented  the 
fighter.  ' '  Don 't  tell  me  it  can 't  be  when  I  know 
it  is!  They're  crooks,  I  tell  you — all  of  'em; 
and  Logan's  the  main  finger  of  the  bunch — 
the  boss.  The  others  are  cappers  and  steerers. 
Why,  listen :  Smalley,  he  comes  to  me  and  says 
they've  got  a  sucker  ribbed  up  to  bet  on  a  fake 
fight.  I  was  to  get  a  hundred  for  going  out " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  interrupted  Billy.  "They 
told  me  it  would  be  better  if  Smalley  made  all 
the  arrangements." 

[118] 


THE    SPOTTED    SHEEP 


''That  would  keep  us  from  getting  together," 
said  Young  Sullivan.  "They  didn't  take  any 
chances  on  you  waking  up  and  crossing  'em. 
You  let  'em  run  the  whole  proposition,  didn't 
you?  Pretty  easy  for  'em — pretty  easy,  boy!'* 

Billy's  tottering  egotism  did  not  need  the 
final  touch  of  mingled  pity  and  contemptuous 
familiarity  in  the  fighter's  tone.  The  wreck  of 
his  self-esteem  was  complete.  For  years  he 
had  deemed  himself  wise,  in  the  slangy  tender 
loin  sense  of  the  word — wise  in  the  things  not 
worth  knowing  and  the  ways  not  worth  travel 
ing. 

Yes,  Billy  Allison  had  thought  himself  wise;* 
but  it  had  remained  for  a  low-browed,  thick- 
skulled  fighter  to  show  him  the  extent  of  that 
wisdom,  and  to  make  him  see  himself  as  he  ap 
peared  to  others — "a  sucker  ribbed  up  to  bet  on 
a  fake  fight!"  Billy  Allison  a  sucker! 

Another  man,  confronted  with  a  revelation  so 
humiliating,  might  have  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  groaned;  but  there  was  nothing  of 
the  theatrical  about  Billy.  He  merely  removed 
his  glasses  and  polished  them  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  blinking  near-sightedly  the  while. 

"Well,  wouldn't  that  frost  you?"  he  mur 
mured.  ' '  Wouldn  't  that  frost  you  ? " 

"You  got  to  learn  some  time,"  said  Young 
Sullivan  consolingly.  "You  won't  be  such  a 
soft  mark  for  the  next  bunko  game." 

Billy  continued  to  blink  and  polish  his 
glasses.  Another  angle  of  the  matter  was  forc- 
[1191 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


ing  itself  on  his  consideration — another  thing  to 
be  explained. 

"I  gave  Smalley  five  hundred  dollars  the 
night  before  the  fight, ' '  said  Billy  slowly.  ' '  He 
was  to  give  it  to  you  if  you  won.  He  held  that 
out,  of  course?" 

"Sure,  he  did!"  was  the  disgusted  reply. 
"The  only  deal  I  had  was  one  hundred  if  I 
lost." 

"Oh!"  said  Billy.  "Then  you  didn't  get " 

Young  Sullivan  laughed  harshly. 

"I  didn't  get  a  thing  out  of  it  but  the  exer 
cise,"  said  he — "not  a  copper  cent!" 

Billy  put  on  his  glasses  and  regarded  the 
fighter  steadily.  Young  Sullivan  avoided  hie 
gaze. 

"Did  you  need  the  hundred?"  asked  Billy. 

"Sure,  I  needed  it!"  said  Young  Sullivan. 
* '  You  don 't  think  I  'd  have  framed  to  go  out  to 
a  dub  unless  I  was  broke?" 

"Why  did  you  change  your  mind?"  demand 
ed  Billy.  "What  made  you  double-cross  that 
outfit?  There  must  have  been  a  reason." 

"There  was,"  said  the  fighter.  "You  don't 
remember  me,  I  guess." 

1 '  Oh,  yes,  I  do ! "  protested  Billy.  "  I  've  seen 
you  fight  lots  of  times." 

Young  Sullivan  threw  out  his  hand  in  an  im 
patient  gesture. 

"Before  that.  No;  you  don't  remember  me, 
but  maybe  you  ain't  forgot  that  kid  with  the 
broken  leg — three  years  ago  in  Mercy  Hospital? 

[120] 


THE   SPOTTED   SHEEP 


Well,   I'm   his   brother — I'm   Mannie   Eosen- 
blatt." 

Mr.  Hawley  had  often  said  that  nothing  Billy 
Allison  might  do  could  surprise  him,  but  he 
disproved  the  truth  of  this  statement  by  ap 
pearing  at  his  club  twenty  minutes  ahead  of  his 
luncheon  schedule  with  news  of  a  startling 
nature. 

This  is  the  latter  portion  of  the  monologue 
with  which  he  regaled  the  cronies  of  the  late 
Henry  Allison: 

"  'And,'  says  he,  'if  you  don't  mind,  I  think 
I'd  like  to  take  an  active  interest  in  the  business 
from  now  on.  I'm  through  fooling,'  he  says — 
'and  I'm  through  for  keeps!  What  time  shall 
I  show  up  in  the  morning?'  " 


T121J 


ON  ACCOUNT  OF  A  LADY 


WHEN  great  men!  fall  out  they  send  for 
Associated  Press  reporters  and  all  the 
world  knows  about  it  the  next  morning ; 
but  when  the  little  fellows  quarrel  the  news 
travels  slowly  and  arrives  late,  bringing  with 
it  unquestionable  proof  of  the  large  percentage 
of  liars  in  the  average  community. 

For  instance,  if  Fighting  Sammy  Dugan  had 
been  a  champion  of  the  world  and  Whitey  Wil 
son  a  challenger  for  the  title,  sharp-nosed  re 
porters  would  have  had  the  whole  truth  out  of 
one  of  them  at  least;  but  Dugan  and  Wilson 
were  not  great  men.  They  were  only  prelimi 
nary  boxers  of  the  sort  known  as  pork-and- 
beaners,  and  that  they  should  quarrel  at  all  was 
something  of  a  joke.  When  reporters  are  not 
sufficiently  interested  to  be  curious,  first  ex 
planations  stand  unchallenged,  and  because  of 
this  the  theory  of  professional  jealousy  went 
unquestioned. 

The  report  was  correct  as  to  the  jealousy,  but 

it  was  not  of  the  professional  variety.    It  was 

the  real  old  green-eyed  sort,  which  nothing  but 

the  Eternal  Triangle  has  ever  been  known  to 

[122] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OP   A  LADY 


produce.  There  was  a  lady  mixed  up  in  it — * 
as  there  has  been  in  nearly  all  the  serious  trou 
ble  since  the  apple  and  the  snake — and  in  this 
particular  case  it  was  the  brown-eyed  one  who 
presided  over  the  cash  register  at  the  end  of 
T-bone  Eiley's  lunch  counter. 

T-bone,  so  called  because  he  served  the  best 
T-bone  steaks  in  the  world  for  thirty  cents — - 
this  was  before  the  increased  cost  of  living  be 
came  a  burning  issue;  probably  T-bone 's  steaks 
are  thinner  now — was  a  philanthropist  in  his 
own  peculiar  way.  He  fed  all  the  preliminary 
fighters  whether  they  had  any  money  or  not. 

''And  why  shouldn't  I?"  asked  Eiley. 
"  Where  are  these  pork-and-beaners  going  to  eat 
if  they  don't  eat  with  me?  If  a  fighter  don't 
eat  reg'lar  he  can't  fight;  and  me,  I  like  to  see 
good  fights.  I'm  what  you  call  a  patron  of  the 
arts,  I  am;  and  when  these  birds  ain't  got  any 
dough  I  put  'em  on  the  slate  till  they  get  some. 
They  always  settle.  I  haven't  lost  a  nickel  on 
'em,  because  they  ain't  the  kind  of  people  that'll 
skin  a  friend. ' ' 

There  had  always  been  a  great  deal  of  social 
freedom  and  personal  liberty  at  Eiley's.  A 
man  ordered  his  steak — rare,  medium  or  well 
done — and  ate  his  cocoanut-custard  pie  with  his 
knife,  if  such  was  his  custom,  and  nobody  said 
anything  about  it.  If  he  had  the  price,  he  paid. 
If  he  did  not  have  the  price,  he  held  up  two 
fingers  as  he  went  out  and  Eiley  made  another 
entry  in  the  dog-eared  memorandum  book  which 
lie  called  his  slate. 

[123] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


T-bone  's  place  was  headquarters  for  fighters, 
pool  sharks,  racetrack  touts,  tinhorn  gamblers 
and  pinfeather  clerks  with  sporting  tendencies. 
Sometimes  a  rank  outsider  dropped  in,  but  not 
often ;  for  Eiley  had  a  way  of  discouraging  the 
sort  of  trade  he  did  not  want.  We  will  let  the 
Dis-and-Dat  Kid,  the  king  of  the  pork-and- 
bean  brigade,  describe  an  instance : 

"I'm  in  Riley's — see? — chuckin'  a  feed  into 
meself.  In  comes  a  Clarence  boy  an'  sets  down 
beside  me.  He  tipped  his  mitt  de  minute  he  took 
off  his  dicer.  T-bone  himself  is  behin'  de  counter 
because  one  of  de  regular  Barters  is  out  on  a 
toot.  T-bone  gives  dis  Clarence  party  a  setup 
an'  asks  him  what  will  he  have. 

"  'Name  it,  cully!'  says  T-bone. 

"  'Who  do  you  t'ink  you're  talking  to?'  says 
Clarence,  some  peeved.  'Don't  be  so  fresh!' 

"Den  he  orders  a  steak,  medium,  hashed 
brown,  an'  Java,  Eight  away  he  begins  to 
holler.  He  hollers  about  de  paper  napkins  an* 
he  hollers  about  some  egg  on  his  fork. 

"  'Dat's  all  right,  cully,'  says  T-bone.  'We 
don't  charge  you  for  dat.  We  t'row  in  de  egg 
wit'  de  steak — see?' 

"Pretty  soon  de  bread  don't  suit  Clarence. 
He  wants  French  bread,  an'  he  wants  it  split 
open  an'  toasted.  An'  he  don't  t'ink  de  butter 
is  on  de  level.  T-bone  is  good  an'  sore  by  dis 
time. 

"  'You  got  de  wrong  number,'  he  says.  'De 
Astor  Grill  is  furder  up  de  street.  Dis  is  Riley's 
joint. ' 

[124] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OF   A   LADY 


"  'Joint  is  right!'  says  Clarence. 

"By-an'-by  de  steak  comes  off  de  fire  an*  T- 
bone  slides  it  along  de  counter.  Clarence  takes 
one  gash  at  it  wit*  his  knife  an'  hollers  murder. 

"  'Call  dis  medium?'  says  he.  'It's  bleed- 
in'  r 

"  'So '11  you  be  in  a  minute!'  says  T-bone; 
an'  he  grabs  dat  steak  by  de  tail  an'  wallops 
Clarence  on  de  jaw  wit'  it.  Down  he  goes  for 
de  count,  an'  T-bone  comes  out  from  behin'  and 
puts  de  boots  to  him  proper. 

"  'Now,'  says  T-bone,  jammin'  de  dicer  on 
Clarence's  head  an*  turnin'  him  round  so's  he 
could  get  one  more  good  kick  at  him,  'don't  you 
never  let  me  ketch  you  in  here  no  more !  Out ! ! ' 

"Did  he  go?  On,  no ;  I  guess  not !  He  on'y 
jumped  over  free  guys  because  he  couldn't 
spare  de  time  to  go  round  'em.  De  gall  of  him 
— pullin'  dat  highbrow  stuff  on  Biley!" 

This  was  the  atmosphere  of  T-bone 's  estab 
lishment  in  the  old  days  before  prosperity  came. 
Eiley  did  well  in  spite  of  his  peculiar  credit 
system — or  because  of  it — and  opened  a  bank 
account  when  his  hip  pocket  could  no  longer 
accommodate  his  savings.  He  bought  a  diamond 
ring — not  even  an  expert  could  have  told  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  the  diamond  un 
less  he  put  it  under  a  magnifying  glass — and 
later  he  allowed  a  fluent  salesman  to  sell  him 
a  cash  register. 

Eiley  did  not  need  a  cash  register  any  more 
than  he  needed  a  diamond,  but  he  had  to  spend 
the  money  on  something.  Then,  of  course,  he 
[125] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


had  to  have  some  one  to  manipulate  the  ma 
chine;  so  he  hired  a  brown-eyed  girl  named 
Myrtle  Schmidt. 

Myrtle's  presence  at  the  end  of  the  lunch 
counter  shocked  and  amazed  the  regular  pa 
trons  and  for  a  time  freedom  of  speech  suffered 
greatly.  The  habitues  became  self-conscious, 
but  gradually  this  feeling  of  restraint  wore  off 
and  they  voted  Myrtle  a  "good  feller."  By 
this  they  meant  that  she  laughed  at  their  witti 
cisms,  listened  sympathetically  to  their  hard- 
luck  stories  and  was  not  in  the  least  stuck  up 
or  haughty. 

Fighting  Sammy  Dugan  and  Whitey  Wil 
son  were  two  of  T-bone's  star  boarders.  To 
gether  they  had  risen  from  obscurity,  making 
names  for  themselves  by  virtue  of  the  talent 
that  was  in  them.  "When  Sammy  fought,  Whitey 
was  sure  to  be  in  his  corner ;  and  when  Whitey 
fought,  Sammy  assisted  with  counsel  and  ad 
vice.  They  were  bosom  friends  and  had  gone 
through  many  lean  periods  side  by  side. 

Sammy  could  make  the  lightweight  limit  if 
pressed — Whitey  scaled  a  few  notches  below 
him;  but  the  exact  poundage  of  a  pork-and- 
beaner  is  never  an  important  matter.  Profes 
sionally  speaking,  they  were  very  evenly 
matched,  Sammy 's  slight  pull  in  the  weight  be 
ing  offset  by  a  longer  reach.  Both  were  rush 
ing,  tearing  battlers  of  the  slambang  school, 
and  the  Queensberry  followers  had  long  cher 
ished  the  hope  of  seeing  them  matched  in  a 
ten-round  encounter.  The  fight  promoter  had 
[126] 


ON  ACCOUNT  OF   A   LADY 


often  broached  the  subject  to  the  boys,  always 
with  the  same  result: 

*  *  Nix !  Whadda  we  want  to  fight  for  ?  We  're 
pals!" 

Sammy  was  not  at  all  a  bad-looking  boy.  He 
had  crisp  curly  hair,  snapping  dark  eyes,  a  fair 
nose,  a  good  chin,  and  he  bore  few  scars  of 
battle.  Whitey  was  less  fortunate.  His  hair 
was  straw-colored ;  his  eyes  were  a  pale,  faded 
blue;  his  complexion  was  heavily  shot  with 
freckles,  and  he  had  a  tin  ear  that  stood  out 
from  his  head  like  a  doorknob. 

Sammy  might  have  won  his  way  into  the  sec 
ond  flight  at  a  beauty  contest;  "Whitey  would 
have  been  disqualified  at  sight.  They  were  the 
David  and  Jonathan,  the  Damon  and  Pythias, 
of  the  pork-and-bean  brigade,  and  their  friend 
ship  was  a  sermon  on  brotherly  love. 

Then  Myrtle  came  to  T-bone  Eiley's  to  oper 
ate  the  cash  register,  and  her  flying  fingers  rang 
up  trouble  for  the  young  gladiators. 

* '  Oh,  gee !  A  skirt ! ' '  said  Sammy,  his  mouth 
full  of  rice  pudding.  "A  skirt  working  for 
Biley!  Well,  whadda  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  she's  a  queen!"  said  Whitey. 

"I  wonder  if  she  knows  who  we  are?"  said 
Sammy.  "I  see  her  givin'  me  the  once-over  a 
while  ago." 

"Aw,"  said  Whitey,  "maybe  she  was  lookin' 
at  me." 

"At  you!"  scoffed  Sammy.  "If  she  was  she 
was  wonderin'  how  a  feller  could  have  a  face 
like  yours  an*  keep  his  health!" 
[127] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


The  rivalry  began  in  fun,  but  the  jest  was 
short-lived.  In  fairness  to  Myrtle  it  must  be 
set  down  here  that  she  was  in  no  way  to  blame. 
She  was  the  sort  of  girl  who  smiles  easily  be 
cause  of  good  teeth  and  a  dimple,  and  she  did 
not  realize  that  danger  may  attend  the  prac 
tice.  She  smiled  on  everybody,  for  she  wished 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  everybody. 

She  was  amused,  though  not  impressed,  when 
Whitey  brought  her  a  remarkable  document, 
which  he  called  his  record.  It  was  laboriously 
penwritten,  with  many  inky  flourishes ;  and  the 
knockouts  Whitey  had  administered  were  heav 
ily  underscored  in  red.  Candor  compels  the 
statement  that  no  mention  was  made  of  the 
knockouts  scored  against  Whitey,  thus  bearing 
out  Mark  Twain's  contention  that  no  man  can 
write  an  autobiography  without  becoming  a  liar 
of  the  first  magnitude. 

"How  int 'resting!"  said  Myrtle.  "What  is 
it!" 

"It's  me  record/'  explained  Whitey.  "It  tells 
who  I've  fought  and  all  about  it.  I  wrote  it  out 
for  you.  Some  day  when  I'm  a  champion,  you 
might  want  to  take  a  look  at  it. ' ' 

1 '  Oh,  very  well, ' '  said  Myrtle,  who  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  as  to  what  this  amazing  screed 
might  be.  In  the  same  accommodating  spirit  she 
accepted  a  worn  pair  of  boxing  gloves  from 
Sammy. 

"I  hung  it  on  Battling  Watlington  with 
these, ' '  said  the  donor  modestly.  * '  They  might 
oome  in  handy  to  stick  up  in  your  room  some- 
[128] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OF   A  LADY 


where.  Take  it  from  me,  this  Watlington  is  one 
tough  guy!  He  gimme  a  fierce  battle;  but  in 
the  sixth  round  I  tore  into  his  pantry,  an'  when 
he  dropped  his  guard — bang !  goes  the  big  right 
hook  on  his  chin — an*  he  was  through  for  the 
night.  Sure  you  can  have  'em  I  Souvenirs,  you 
know.  This  blue  ribbon  is  to  hang  'em  up 
with." 

Myrtle  thanked  Sammy  as  prettily  as  she 
knew  how,  but  in  her  heart  she  regarded  the 
gloves  as  nasty  things  and  dropped  them  into 
a  convenient  ashcan  on  the  way  home.  The 
same  ashcan,  by  the  way,  received  Whitey's 
record. 

Whitey  witnessed  the  presentation  of  the 
gloves,  and  his  heart  burned  under  his  ribs. 
Why  had  he  not  thought  of  that?  There  re 
mained  nothing  but  to  belittle  Sammy's  gift, 
which  he  proceeded  to  do  at  the  first  oppor 
tunity. 

"There's  some  awful  bad  fighters  round 
here,"  said  Whitey  to  Myrtle,  apropos  of  noth 
ing. 

"Yes?"  said  Myrtle,  seemingly  much  inter 
ested,  but  really  not  knowing  what  else  to  say. 

"Uh-huh!  This  Battling  Watlington,  he's 
a  terrible  piece  of  cheese.  Awful!  Can't  fight 
fast  enough  to  get  up  a  sweat ;  and  they  say  he 
takes  a  shot  in  the  arm  once  in  a  while.  Sammy 
was  all  puffed  up  when  he  knocked  him  out; 
but  if  he'd  a  took  my  advice  Watlington 
wouldn't  have  lasted  two  rounds.  'Tear  into 
him,  Sammy!'  I  says.  'He  can't  hit  hard  enough 
[129] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


to  break  a  promise.  Boot  into  him  an'  make 
him  quit!' 

"If  it  had  been  me  an'  that  "Watlington  had 
lasted  six  rounds  I  wouldn't  have  done  no  brag 
ging — and  I  wouldn't  have  saved  the  gloves, 
neither.  If  I'm  going  to  give  anybody  a  souve 
nir  it's  got  to  be  gloves  that  was  in  a  real  fight. 
Now  Kid  Cassidy — you  saw  him  in  my  record, 
didn't  you? — there  was  some  fighting  wolf;  but 
I  never  did  know  what  become  of  them  gloves." 
And  so  on. 

Mischief  of  this  sort,  once  afoot,  travels  rap 
idly  and  finds  advance  couriers  to  clear  the  way. 
Split-tooth  Durkee,  retired  bantamweight  pork- 
and-beaner  and  all-night  waiter  at  Eiley's,  as 
sisted  matters  materially  when  he  repeated  to 
Sammy  a  portion  of  the  foregoing  conversation 
with  embellishments  of  his  own. 

"Whitey's  doin'  you  dirt  with  the  chicken  at 
the  cash  register,"  said  Split-tooth. 

' '  How  so  T '  demanded  Sammy. 

"Now  listen!  I  ain't  no  trouble  maker," 
said  Split-tooth  virtuously ;  ' '  and,  anyway,  you 
got  to  promise  not  to  bring  me  into  it.  My 
fighting  days  are  over — seel?" 

"You're  declared  out,"  said  Sammy.  "Tell 
me  what  he  did. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Split-tooth,  "to  begin  with,  he 
says  you  ain't  never  licked  no  regular  fighters 
like  he  has.  He  tells  her  you  was  all  swole  up 
over  knocking  out  Battling  Watlington — a  feller 
that  couldn't  fight  himself  out  of  a  paper  bag!" 
[130] 


01ST   ACCOUNT  OF  A  LADY 


Whitey  say  that?  What's  he  knocking 
me  for?" 

"Oh,  that  ain't  all.  He  says  he  made  you 
win  all  your  fights  by  bein'  in  your  corner  an' 
tellin'  you  what  to  do.  He  says  you  'd  have  quit 
three  or  four  times  if  he  hadn't  been  behind  you 

"Wait,  now!  Don't  get  excited.  Bemem- 

ber,  I'm  out  of  this.  I'm  only  tellin'  you  as  a 
friend,  Sammy!" 

Split-tooth  was  nothing  if  not  impartial.  The 
next  day  he  had  some  interesting  information 
for  Whitey — as  before,  insisting  on  protection.1 
There  should  be  no  closed  season  for  the  man 
who  says : 

"I'm  your  friend  and  I  think  you  ought  to 
know  this." 

"Sammy  was  pannin'  you  to  Myrtle,"  said 
Split-tooth. 

' '  He  was ! ' '  ejaculated  Whitey.  ' « Why,  the 
dawg!  What  was  he  doing  that  for?" 

"To  put  you  in  bad,  of  course.  You  know 
what  he  told  her?  He  said  he  hadn't  never 
fought  you  because  he  was  a  kind-hearted  guy 
and  he  didn't  want  to  show  you  up  before  the 
public." 

Here  Whitey  gurgled  incoherently. 

"Yes;  he  said  you  was  only  a  harmless  kind 
of  nut  that  had  kidded  yourself  into  thinkin' 
you  could  fight.  He  told  her  he  could  put  you 
out  cold  in  four  rounds  any  day  in  the  week,  and 
if  he  didn't  do  it  he'd  donate  his  share  of  the 
purse  to  charity.  He  said  he  could  lick  you  and 
make  you  like  it — them's  the  words  he  used — 

1131] 


TAKIXQ   THE    COUNT 


make  you  like  it!  Gee!  You  ain't  sore,  are 
you,  Whitey?  I  told  you  because  I  thought  you 
ought  to  know  what  was  coming  off  behind  your 
back.  I've  always  been  your  friend,  ain't  1? 
Well  then,  keep  me  out  of  it." 


The  secretary  and  matchmaker  of  the  club 
which  promoted  boxing  contests  looked  up  from 
his  desk  to  greet  Whitey  Wilson  on  the  point 
of  exploding  with  wrath  and  suppressed  emo 
tion. 

* '  Aw,  Whitey  I "  said  he.    ' '  What 's  ne w  I " 

"I  want  you  to  get  Sammy  Dugan  for  me  on 
the  fifteenth  of  next  month.  I'm  going  to  lick 
that  fourflusher  until  he  yells  for  the  police. 
I'm  going  to  hand  him  a  trimming  that 
will " 

"Hello!"  said  the  matchmaker.  "Have  the 
Siamese  Twins  had  a  falling  out  1 ' ' 

"Worse  than  that!"  said  Whitey  bitterly. 
"He's  been  going  round  making  cracks  that  he 
could  put  me  out  in  four  rounds.  Make  it  any 
distance  you  want — four,  six  or  ten ;  if  I  don 't 
stop  him  I  won 't  ask  for  a  nickel !  Not  a  nickel ! ' ' 

"But  suppose  he  doesn't  want  to  fight  you?" 

"He'll  have  to!"  squealed  Whitey.  "He 
can't  get  away.  I'll  fight  him  in  the  street — 
anywhere !  You  can  lock  us  in  a  cellar  and  drop 
the  key  down  a  well!  I'll  git  him " 

"  Easy !  Easy ! "  said  the  wise  official.  "  Don 't 
get  excited.  Never  give  away  anything  that  you 
[132] 


ON   ACCOUNT  OF  A  LADY 


can  sell,  Whitey.  If  there 's  a  real  grudge  fight 
in  sight  let  us  stage  it,  and  we  '11  all  make  some 
money.  What  started  the  trouble  between 
you?" 

"He's  been  lying  about  me!"  said  "Whitey. 
"He's  been  tellin'  all  over  town  that  I  only 
think  I  can  fight " 

"And  you  won't  think  so  long!"  a  third  voice 
cut  into  the  discussion. 

Fighting  Sammy  Dugan  stood  in  the  door 
way.  After  the  initial  outburst  he  ignored 
Whitey  and  addressed  himself  to  the  match 
maker,  speaking  with  labored  politeness. 

* '  Greetings  and  salutations ! ' '  said  he.  * '  Sign 
up  this  windbag  for  me.  I'll  fight  him — winner 
take  all;  and  if  I  don't  make  him  jump  out  of 
the  ring  I  won't  ask  for  a  cent." 

"Me — jump  out  of  the  ring!"  screamed 
Whitey.  "He  better  look  out  I  don't  make  him 
jump  out  of  the  ring ! ' ' 

"Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!"  said  the  match 
maker.  "Don't  start  anything  here.  Shake  it 
up,  boys ;  but  don't  spill  it.  Save  it  for  the  fif 
teenth.  Now  about  the  purse " 

"Any  old  way  suits  me,"  said  Sammy. 

"Winner  take  all!"  suggested  Whitey. 

"One  hundred  dollars — winner  take  all,"  said 
the  matchmaker.  "Is  that  satisfactory?" 

"  I  'd  fight  him  for  nothing ! ' '  said  Sammy. 

' '  That 's  what  you  '11  get ! "  said  Whitey. 

' '  This  is  the  real  thing, ' '  reflected  the  match 
maker.  "What  a  pity  the  reporters  aren't  here  I 
They  could  make  quite  a  story  out  of  this." 
[133] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Later  in  the  day  they  did  make  quite  a  story 
out  of  it  under  headlines  proclaiming  the  sun 
dering  of  friendship's  bonds  and  the  dissolution 
of  a  partnership.  Professional  jealousy  was 
mentioned  as  the  contributing  cause,  which  ex 
planation  appealed  to  the  sporting  humorists 
and  they  made  merry  with  the  topic.  Whitey 
was  interviewed  by  a  representative  of  a  morn 
ing  paper — a  great  honor,  which  almost  over 
whelmed  him  and  made  him  nervous  and  volu 
ble. 

' '  Say,  print  this,  will  you  ? '  '  said  he.  ' '  Put  it 
in  the  paper  that  I'm  going  to  fight  this  Dugan 
just  to  show  him  up — see?  Just  to  let  the  pub 
lic  know  he  never  was  any  good!  Don't  forget 
that. 

"Here's  another  thing  you  can  put  in — better 
write  it  down  so  you  won't  forget  it — I'm  going 
to  meet  him  coming  out  of  his  corner  and  if  I 
ever  take  a  backward  step  I  hope  I  don't  get  out 
of  the  ring  alive.  Got  that?  I'm  going  to  hit 
him  so  hard  that  it  will  make  his  grandfather's 
head  ache.  I  'm  going  to ' ' 

* '  Yes,  yes ! ' '  said  the  reporter  soothingly.  '  *  I 
know  you  are;  but  what's  it  all  about?  What 
started  the  row?  You  used  to  be  pals,  didn't 
you?" 

"Sure!"  said  Whitey  excitedly.  "Sure,  we 
did!  That's  what  gets  my  goat.  I've  cut  up 
my  last  dollar  with  Dugan  many's  the  time; 
and  now  he 's  going  round  knocking  me  to  every 
body.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  him  for  fear 
I'll  forget  myself;  but  put  it  in  the  paper  that  I 

[134] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OF   A   LADY 


say  Sammy  Dugan's  a  rat — "Whitey  Wilson  says 
so!  Got  that?  He's  got  a  streak  of  yellow  in 
him  as  wide  as  Main  Street!  Don't  forget 
that." 

The  reporter  did  not  forget,  and  Split-tooth 
Durkee  saw  to  it  that  a  copy  of  the  paper  con 
taining  this  remarkable  interview  was  handed 
to  Myrtle  Schmidt,  who  read  the  article  with 
wide  eyes. 

1 '  Mercy  sakes ! ' '  said  she.  '  *  They  must  have 
had  a  quarrel ! ' ' 

"Yeh,"  grinned  the  diminutive  Durkee;  "it 
does  kind  of  look  as  if  they've  parted  doll- 
rags.  ' '  He  stepped  closer  and  lowered  his  voice 
insinuatingly.  "And  I'll  bet  you  don't  know 
what  it  was  about  or  nothing.  Oh,  no!  P'fes- 
sional  jealousy!  That's  a  hot  one — that  is! 
Say,  you  could  tell  these  reporters  a  thing  or 
two — couldn't  you,  kid?" 

"Miss  Schmidt  to  you  if  you  please!" 
snapped  Myrtle.  "And  I  couldn't  tell  anybody 
anything,  because  I  don't  know  anything. 
What's  more,  I  don't  want  to  know!  If  any 
body  mixes  me  up  in  a  fuss  like  this  they'll  be 
sorry.  I  attend  to  my  business,  and  I'll  thank 
you  to  attend  to  yours!" 

"Just  as  you  say,"  leered  Split-tooth  wicked 
ly.  "Just  as  you  say,  girlie.  You  don't  need 
to  get  sore  about  it.  Nobody's  trying  to  mix 
you  up;  but  it's  kind  of  queer  when  two  old 
pals  bust  up  like  this  and " 

' '  The  cook  is  calling  you ! ' '  interrupted  Myr 
tle.  '  *  And  you  keep  away  from  this  end  of  the 
[135] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


counter — do  you  hear?  Bother  me  once  more 
and  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Biley !" 

Split-tooth  snarled  as  he  moved  toward  the 
range. 

"Goin'  to  holler  to  T-bone,  eh!"  he  muttered 
to  himself.  "She  ain't  had  no  use  for  me  since 
the  night  I  ast  her  to  go  to  a  movin '-pitcher 
show.  Bawled  me  out  good !  I  wonder  who  she 
thinks  she  is?  Too  stuck  up  for  common  peo 
ple — yes,  sir !  Coming  right  up !  German  fried, 
wasn't  it  ?  There  you  are,  sport ! ' ' 

m 

On  the  eve  of  battle,  as  the  sporting  writ 
ers  so  happily  phrase  it,  the  Wilson- 
Dugan  match  divided  interest  with  the  main 
event — an  elimination  contest  in  the  White 
Hope  division.  All  the  world  loves  a  grudge 
fight — sad  commentary  on  our  boasted  civiliza 
tion — and  for  days  the  reporters  had  bombard 
ed  their  readers  with  articles  on  the  approach 
ing  combat  between  the  Siamese  Twins  of  the 
pork-and-bean  brigade — "side-kicks  once,  but 
strangers  now,"  as  one  sporting  writer  put  it. 

Professional  jealousy  was  still  the  only  ex 
planation  offered,  and  at  T-bone 's  place  there 
was  but  one  topic  of  conversation.  The  White 
Hopes  were  forgotten — it  transpired  later  that 
they  deserved  to  be — in  the  discussion  of  the  rel 
ative  merits  and  abilities  of  Fighting  Sammy 
Dugan  and  Whitey  Wilson. 

On  the  night  before  the  fight  there  came  to 
[136] 


O1ST   ACCOUNT   OF   A  LADY 


Kiley's  one  Ed  Faraday,  a  sporting  writer  who 
tossed  a  nimble  quill  for  an  afternoon  paper. 
He  was  seeking  a  T-bone,  rare,  French  fried 
potatoes,  apple  pie  and  coffee.  The  hour  was 
late,  patrons  were  infrequent,  and  Split-tooth 
Durkee,  having  delivered  Faraday's  order  to 
Saginaw,  the  night  cook,  lingered  to  gossip. 

''Some  fight  to-morrow  night, "  said  Split- 
tooth  tentatively. 

"Those  big  hams?"  said  Faraday.  "No 
chance — I  could  lick  'em  myself." 

"Naw — not  them.    Whitey  and  Sammy." 

"Oh!"  said  the  sporting  authority.  "Yes; 
if  this  grudge-fight  talk  is  on  the  level  it  ought 
to  be  a  hummer." 

Split-tooth  grinned  knowingly. 

"Don't  worry,"  said  he.  "It's  on  the  level 
all  right." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Never  you  mind  how  I  know,"  said  Durkee 
mysteriously.  "P'fessional  jealousy!  Where 
do  you  get  that  stuff?  You're  supposed  to  be 
wise.  You've  been  round  and  seen  a  lot  of 
things  come  off.  What  is  it  that  makes  most 
of  the  trouble  between  pals,  eh?  What  is  it  that 
makes  a  man  want  to  lick  his  best  friend?  P  'f es- 
sional  jealousy?  Bah!  Ain't  there  no  other 
kind  of  jealousy?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  there's  a  skirt  in 
this ! "  said  Faraday,  pausing  in  the  act  of  spear 
ing  a  pickle. 

"You've  been  asleep  at  the  switch  a  long 
time,  but  you're  waking  up  now,"  said  Split- 
[137] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


tooth.  "A  skirt!  You've  said  it  all.  Pity  you 
didn't  know  about  it  before  you  wrote  that  bunk 
about  p'fessional  jealousy.  Gee!  That  handed 
me  a  laugh!"  Durkee  moved  away  from  the 
counter. 

"Say,  come  back  here!"  Durkee  paused  un 
certainly.  "Come  here!"  repeated  Faraday. 
"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  Whitey  and 
Sammy  busted  up  over  a  girl?" 

' '  I  don 't  mean  to  tell  you  nothing, ' '  said  Split- 
tooth.  ' '  Do  you  think  I  want  to  get  in  bad  with 
a  couple  of  lowbrows  that  have  got  me  shaded 
on  the  weight!" 

' '  Oh,  come  on ! "  pleaded  Faraday.  "  I  'd  treat 
it  as  confidential — honest,  I  would.  I  wouldn't 
tell  a  soul  where  I  got  it." 

"Nothing  doing!"  said  Split-tooth  firmly. 
1 1  Why,  you  got  a  nerve  to  ask  me !  You  eat  here 
a  good  deal — you  could  'a'  seen  it  with  your 
own  eyes." 

Faraday  struck  the  lunch  counter  with  his 
open  hand. 

' '  The  girl  at  the  cash  register ! ' '  said  he. 

"Go  to  the  head  of  the  class!" 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Myrtle  Schmidt." 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Nineteen — say,  what  are  you  trying  to  do? 
Interview  me  ?  Nix !  You  've  seen  her,  ain  't  you  f 
Brown  eyes,  kind  of  dark  complected,  weighs 
about  the  featherweight  limit,  been  working  here 

about  two  months You  ain't  going  to  write 

anything  about  this,  are  you?" 
[138] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OP   A  LADY 


' '  No — of  course  not ! ' '  said  Faraday  with  sar 
casm.  "  I  'm  just  gathering  this  information  for 
the  census  bureau!" 

"Well,"  said  Split-tooth  with  a  sigh,  "if 
you're  going  to  spill  it  in  the  paper  it  ain't  my 
fault.  I  can't  stop  you.  All  I  ask  is  that  you 
leave  me  out  of  it — see?  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
you  a  few  things  you  ought  to  know — out  of 
friendship — but  I  don't  want  no  comeback.  I 
can't  go  on  the  floor  and  mix  with  these  rough- 
and-tumblers,  and  I  ain't  going  out  of  my  class 
to  oblige  anybody." 

'  *  Mum 's  the  word ! ' '  promised  Mr.  Faraday. 
"Now  then,  how  did  it  start!" 

rv 

Fighting  Sammy  Dugan  sat  on  a  rubbing 
table  in  one  of  the  tiny  dressing  rooms  under 
neath  the  bleachers  of  the  boxing  pavilion, 
swinging  his  heels  and  listening  to  the  roar  of 
the  multitude.  From  time  to  time  he  inclined  an 
ear  to  the  earnest  words  of  the  Dis-and-Dat 
Kid,  his  chief  second  and  adviser. 

"Now  remember,  Sammy,  don't  git  mad! 
Never  mind  standin'  toe  to  toe  an'  slugging 
until  somebody  drops.  Let  Whitey  fight  dat 
way  if  he  wants  to.  Wear  him  down  wit*  dat 
left  an'  den  wham  him  wit'  de  right.  Eemem- 
ber  your  reppitation,  an' " 

The  door  banged  open  and  T-bone  Eiley  en 
tered,  a  thundercloud  on  his  brow.  He  held  a 
[139] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


pink  sporting  extra  in  his  hand,  which  he  thrust 
under  Sammy's  nose. 

"You're  a  fine  pair  of  mutts — you  and 
Whitey!"  said  he.  "Look  what  you  done!" 

Sammy  glanced  at  the  paper  and  his  jaw 
fell.  A  double  row  of  black  type  three  columns 
wide  smote  him  with  all  the  force  of  a  blow  be 
tween  the  eyes. 

DUGAN  AND  WILSON  TO  BATTLE  FOB  LOVE  OP 
BEAUTIFUL  GIRL! 

"Wha — what's  this?"  stammered  Sammy, 
aghast. 

"Mighty  innocent,  ain't  you?"  sneered  T- 
bone.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is !  It 's  my  notion 
of  a  dirty  trick !  Here 's  a  girl  that 's  all  right 
in  every  way — behaves  herself  like  a  lady,  never 
mixes  up  in  nothing  and  ain't  looking  for  pub 
licity.  A  couple  of  bum  fighters  get  to  quarrel 
ing  over  her  and  between  'em  they  cook  her  up 
a  press  notice  like  this.  Listen  while  I  read  you 
a  sample. ' ' 

T-bone  cleared  his  throat  and  read  as  fol 
lows: 

1  *  '  The  little  god  of  love  will  referee  to-night 's 
battle  between  Fighting  Sammy  Dugan  and 
Whitey  Wilson,  erstwhile  friends,  but  now  bit 
ter  enemies  and  rivals  for  the  hand  of  Miss 
Myrtle  Schmidt,  a  petite  brunette  beauty  of  this 
city.'  Wha 'd'ye  think  of  that— eh?  'Bivalsfor 
the  hand!'  Say,  do  you  think  she'd  marry 
either  one  of  you  tramps?" 
[140] 


ON   ACCOUNT   OF   A   LADY 


"Marry!"  gasped  Sammy.  "Nothing  like 
that.  And  they've  even  got  her  name!  Oh,  if 
I  can  get  the  fellow  who  spilled  this,  Eiley,  I'll 
murder  him!" 

"You're  sure  you  didn't?"  questioned  T- 
bone. 

"I've  never  mentioned  her  to  a  soul!"  cried 
Sammy.  "What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"Well,  somebody  spilled  it,"  said  T-bone, 
"and  now  it's  all  over  town.  Whitey  says  he 
didn't  do  it." 

"I  wouldn't  put  it  past  him  to  do  anything," 
said  Sammy. 

"That's  what  he  says  about  you." 

"He  does?  Oh,  wait  till  I  get  him  in  the 
ring !  Say,  Eiley,  do  you  think  she  '11  be  sore  ? ' ' 

"Sore!"  T-bone  laughed  unpleasantly. 
"No ;  she'll  be  tickled  to  death  to  have  her  name 
mixed  up  with  a  couple  of  cheap  fighters !  A  nice 
girl  wouldn  't  mind  a  little  thing  like  that  at  all ! 
I  haven't  seen  her.  She's  on  the  late  shift  to 
night  ;  but  I'd  advise  you  to  keep  away  from  the 
joint  until  she  cools  out." 

Half  an  hour  later  Sammy  Dugan  and  Whitey 
Wilson  stood  in  the  center  of  the  ring,  blinking 
in  the  glare  of  the  arclights,  ostensibly  listen 
ing  to  the  referee — an  honest,  conscientious  soul 
— who  droned  monotonously  about  many  things, 
none  of  which  was  new. 

Said  Sammy,  glowering  at  Whitey : 

"What  did  you  get  that  put  in  the  paper 
for?" 

Said  Whitey  to  Sammy: 
[141] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"I  didn't.  You  did  it  yourself — nobody  else 
knew." 

''You  did!" 

"I  didn't!" 

"You're  a  liar!" 

"You're  another!" 

Said  the  referee,  extending  his  arms  and  div 
ing  between  the  combatants : 

"Here!  None  of  that!  Can't  you  wait  till 
the  bell  rings?" 

Thus,  with  an  added  cause  for  grievance,  they 
waited  for  the  clang  of  the  gong. 

The  honest  and  conscientious  referee  said  it 
was  a  draw,  and  three  thousand  lay  brethren 
applauded  that  just  decision  wildly.  Then  they 
fell  back  in  their  seats,  hoarse,  hysterical  and 
happy.  For  once  a  grudge  fight  had  justified 
its  press  notices.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
was  nothing  else  for  the  referee  to  do.  "With 
both  men  on  their  feet  at  the  end  of  the  battle 
— dazed,  battered  and  staggering,  but  still  on 
their  feet — he  had  no  choice. 

He  could  not  have  awarded  a  decision  on  sci 
entific  points.  There  were  no  scientific  points. 
He  could  not  have  declared  either  man  a  winner 
on  aggressiveness.  Both  had  been  as  aggres 
sive  as  wildcats.  In  the  matter  of  knockdowns 
honors  were  fairly  even.  Whitey  had  taken  the 
count  six  times  and  Sammy  five.  As  to  punish 
ments  inflicted,  there  was  little  to  choose. 
Sammy  had  a  broken  nose,  but  Whitey  had  lost 
a  tooth.  Sammy's  mouth  resembled  a  badly 
[142] 


ON  ACCOUNT  OF  A  LADY 


bitten  damson  plum,  Whitey  had  a  mouse  under 
his  left  eye.  Sammy  had  a  lump  on  his  jaw, 
but  Whitey  had  a  split  lip. 

''And  as  for  blood,"  said  the  referee,  ruefully 
regarding  his  soft  white  shirt,  "  between  'em 
they  shed  enough  of  it  to  free  Ireland!" 

No  sooner  had  the  two  soggy  gloves  been 
hoisted  in  the  air  than  Sammy  dashed  out  at  one 
angle  of  the  ring  and  Whitey  hopped  through 
the  ropes  at  the  other,  thus  violating  all  tradi 
tion.  After  a  drawn  battle  it  is  customary  for 
the  gladiators  to  linger  as  long  as  possible,  leav 
ing  the  ring  separately  in  order  that  the  ap 
plause  may  be  sustained.  Two  such  precipitous 
exits  were  never  before  witnessed  in  that  arena. 

"Say,  you  gotta  have  dat  nose  fixed  up,"  said 
the  Dis-and-Dat  Kid  to  Sammy  in  the  dressing 
room. 

"Plenty  of  time,"  mumbled  the  disfigured 
gladiator.  "I  shaded  him  in  every  round, 
didn't  I?" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  partition  Whitey 's 
handlers  besought  him  to  allow  them  to  reduce 
the  mouse  by  the  simple  and  expedient  method 
of  lancing  it  with  the  blade  of  a  penknife. 

"To-morrow!"  said  Whitey  impatiently. 
"Where's  my  pants?" 

It  was  a  great  race  and  Sammy  Dugan  won 
it  by  half  a  block.  He  burst  into  Biley's  place 
out  of  breath,  disheveled  and  perspiring  freely. 
Split-tooth  Durkee  grinned  behind  the  coffee 
boiler,  and  Myrtle  stared  stonily  over  the  cash 
register.  She  had  put  on  her  hat  and  coat,  and 
[143] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


her  bag  dangled  from  her  wrist.  Her  nose  and 
eyes  were  suspiciously  red. 

"They  give  it  a  draw,"  panted  Sammy,  "but 
I  win  a  mile !  Say,  I  want — to  tell  you — I  didn  't 
put  that  piece  in  the  paper.  It  was  Whitey  did 
that— and " 

This  declaration  was  interrupted  by  the  ac 
cused,  who  hurled  himself  into  the  room,  also 
breathless  and  perspiring. 

"Don't  you  believe  him!"  he  cried.  "  'S  a 
lie!" 

"Oh,  you're  both  here,  are  you?"  said  Miss 
Schmidt  coldly.  "Well,  I  just  want  to  tell  you 
one  thing:  I  wouldn't  waste  my  time  on  hood 
lums  like  you.  I  wouldn't  look  at  you  outside 
of  this  place.  I  wouldn't  speak  to  you !  You're 
trash,  that's  what  you  are — trash !"  Her  voice 
grew  suddenly  shrill.  "The  idea  of  you  drag 
ging  me  into  the  newspapers  like  this — a  couple 
of  lowdown  hoodlums  like  you!  My  fiance  is 
going  to  be  in  town  to-morrow.  He's  a  brake- 
man  on  the  railroad,  and  he's  bigger  than  both 
of  you  put  together.  Just  wait  till  he  catches 
you— that's  all!" 

She  had  stepped  round  the  end  of  the  counter 
and  now  swept  out  into  the  street,  banging  the 
door  behind  her.  The  battle-scarred  gladiators 
looked  at  each  other  blankly.  After  a  time  they 
became  aware  of  Split-tooth  Durkee,  who  was 
grinning  at  them  from  a  safe  distance. 

"She's  quit  her  job,"  said  Split-tooth  cheer 
fully — "Says  she  couldn't  hold  up  her  head  in 
[144] 


ON    ACCOUNT    OF    A    LADY 


this  joint  again.  And  say,  if  what  she  tells  me 
about  this  brakeman  is  right  you  better  leave 
town  now.  He's  bigger 'n  a  house!" 

Sammy  and  Whitey  exchanged  glances  of 
deep  concern. 

1  'If  that's  the  way  it  is "  said  Sammy  ten 
tatively. 

"We  better  stick  together,"  said  Whitey. 

They  shook  hands. 

"We  can  lick  him  if  he's  as  big  as  Jim  Jef 
fries  ! ' '  said  Sammy. 

"You're  whistling!"  said  Whitey. 

They  shook  hands  again. 

"You're  a  tough  bird,  Whitey,  old  boy!"  said 
Sammy.  "I'd  rather  fight  a  champion  than 
take  you  on  again." 

1 1 1  never  got  such  a  lacing  in  my  life  as  I  got 
from  you,"  said  Whitey,  thoughtfully  stroking 
the  mouse  under  his  left  eye. 

"Say,  what  started  it  anyway?"  asked 
Sammy. 

"Why,"  said  Whitey,  "Split-tooth,  over 
there,  he  said  that  you  was  knocking  me  to  her. '  * 

"He  told  me  the  same  about  you,"  said 
Sammy. 

They  considered  the  situation  gravely,  turn 
ing  this  information  over  and  over  in  their 
minds.  Then  they  looked  at  Split-tooth,  who 
squeaked  and  backed  suddenly  into  a  pile  of 
plates,  sending  them  crashing  to  the  floor. 

"Nix!  Nix !"  he  begged.  "Ain't  we  always 
been  friends  ? ' ' 

[145] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"You  go  round  one  end  of  the  counter  and  I'll 
go  round  the  other,"  said  Sammy. 
"He  can't  get  away,"  said  Whitey. 

When  T-bone  Eiley  dropped  in  he  found  Sag- 
maw  in  sole  possession  of  the  premises,  which 
bore  every  appearance  of  having  been  visited 
by  a  cyclone. 

'  *  What 's  happened  here  ? ' '  asked  T-bone,  esti 
mating  the  damage  with  a  practiced  eye. 

"A  whole  lot  of  things,"  said  the  night  cook: 
"Your  cashier  has  quit.  Sammy  and  Whitey 
are  friends  again.  It  was  Split-tooth  that  got 
that  piece  put  in  the  paper.  He's  in  the  Receiv 
ing  Hospital." 

"Outside  of  that  every  little  thing  is  all 
right?"  asked  T-bone. 

"So  far  as  I  know,"  said  Saginaw. 

"Fair  enough!"  said  T-bone  Eiley. 


[146] 


NO  BUSINESS 


ME.  PATRICK  TIERNEY,  alone  in  his 
art  gallery  on  the  sunrise  side  of  San 
Francisco  Bay,  swabbed  ap  a  few  drops 
of  beer  left  upon  the  bar  by  the  last  customer 
and  hummed  a  snatch  of  a  sentimental  ballad. 

Sentiment  would  have  seemed  out  of  place  in 
Mr.  Tierney 's  establishment,  for  the  walls  were 
plastered  thick  with  photographs  and  halftones 
of  gentlemen  with  cauliflower  ears  and  ingrow 
ing  noses.  All  the  personages  thus  represented 
were  more  or  less  known  to  the  sort  of  fame 
that  blossoms  large  upon  the  pink  pages  of 
great  religious  dailies,  and  Mr.  Tierney  himself 
was  a  walking  encyclopedia  of  information  re 
garding  these  battered  gladiators — a  sort  of  a 
Who  Whipped  Who  in  Point  Richmond. 

He  could  trace  a  champion  at  any  weight  to 
his  obscure  beginnings  and  brighten  his  history 
with  anecdote  and  personal  reminiscence.  He 
had  an  uncanny  faculty  for  picking  winners  and 
comers,  and  to  leave  it  to  Tierney  was  to  get  the 
last  word  on  anything  connected  with  the  ring 
or  its  followers. 

It  was  Tierney  who  pulled  Young  Kilroy  off 
[147] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


the  brake-beams  and  started  him  onward  and 
upward;  it  was  Tierney  who  took  one  look  at 
the  loudly  heralded  unbeaten  Australian  cham 
pion  and  mortgaged  his  property  to  bet  against 
him,  thereby  cashing  in  handsomely  at  odds  of 
two  for  one ;  it  was  Tierney  who  three  days  be 
fore  the  McOloskey-0 'Shay  fiasco  advised  his 
friends  not  to  back  either  man,  and  chuckled  as 
tutely  when  all  bets  were  called  off  at  the  ring 
side.  Because  of  these  things,  and  many  more, 
people  listened  when  Tierney  talked.  They  said 
he  "knew  something,"  and  if  there  were  times 
when  he  kept  this  knowledge  to  himself,  turn 
ing  it  to  financial  account,  they  credited  him 
with  wisdom.  Fattening  a  bank  balance  is  no 
sin  in  any  community. 

The  swinging  door  opened  and  two  men  en 
tered.  The  first  was  small  and  compact,  with 
the  alert  air  of  a  fox  terrier,  and  he  wore  a 
checkered  suit  of  violent  pattern.  The  second 
was  tall  and  solemn  and  quietly  dressed.  Both 
hailed  Tierney  in  familiar  fashion. 

"Well,  how's  the  ole  burgjjar?"  said  the  small 
man.  "Long  time  I  no  see  you!"  • 

' '  Patrick, ' '  said  the  other,  ' '  I  greet  you ! ' ' 

"  'Lo,  Cricket!  'Lo,  Deacon!"  grinned  Tier 
ney,  extending  a  freckled  paw  across  the  bar. 
"What's  new  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bay?" 

"Not  a  thing!"  answered  the  newcomer  ad 
dressed  as  Cricket.  "Didn't  see  you  at  the 
fight  last  Tuesday  night,  Tierney." 

"A  fat  chance!"  said  the  proprietor,  setting 
out  the  bottles.  "A  fine,  fat  chance !  Catch  me 
[148] 


NO   BUSINESS 


layin'  off  to  watch  Hogan  take  a  nap.  Hogan! 
And  him  with  a  nose  that  shouts  out  loud  that 
his  name  is  Isidore  Mandelbaum!  He  quit, 
didn't  he?" 

'  *  He  did  that  little  thing, ' '  replied  the  Deacon 
gravely.  ' '  His  friends  say  a  right  hook  on  the 
jaw  sent  him  bye-bye,  but  I  know  better.  He  got 
up  as  soon  as  the  referee  stopped  counting." 

"Wasn't  hurt  a  bit,"  supplemented  the 
Cricket. 

"He's  a  puzzle  to  me,"  continued  the  Dea 
con.  "Week  before  last  he  went  all  round 
Young  McGraw  like  a  cooper  round  a  barrel. 
On  the  form  he  showed  that  night  he  could  have 
whipped  a  world's  champion.  Last  Tuesday 
night  he  quit  to  a  dub.  I  can't  figure  him  at 
all." 

"I  can!"  Tierney  slapped  his  hand  on  the 
bar.  "He  ain't  worth  two  whoops  in — Peta- 
luma!" 

"He's  fast,"  murmured  the  Cricket. 

"And  clever  as  they  make  'em."  This  from 
the  Deacon. 

"And  he  can  hit  with  both  hands — hit  hard 
too."  Tierney  took  up  the  thread.  "He's  got 
everything  a  fighter  ought  to  have — everything 
but  the  heart  and  the  stomach.  He  '11  never 
fight  for  the  pure  love  of  fightin',  understand 
me?  Put  an  Irish  heart  in  him,  make  him  train 
a  little  bit  now  and  then,  an'  you'd  have  a  cham 
pion — no  less." 

"He  handed  that  big  squarehead  from  the 
[149] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


revenue  cutter  an  awful  trimming,"  said  the 
Cricket. 

"An'  why?  Because  he  knew  the  sailor 
was  too  slow  to  hit  him  with  a  buggy  whip! 
Put  a  man  in  front  of  him  that  he  knows  he  can 
lick,  an'  Isidore  is  a  demon.  Give  him  a  tough 
boy  that  he  ain't  sure  about — one  that'll  rough 
it  with  him  an'  step  on  his  feet  in  the  clinches 
an'  shove  him  round  the  ring — an'  pretty  soon 
you'll  see  him  pickin'  out  a  soft  spot  to  fall  on. 
Oh,  I  know  him  like  a  book !  The  kick  of  a  mule 
in  either  hand,  but  the  heart  of  a  cottontail  rab 
bit  !  Not  worth  that ! ' '  And  Tierney  snapped 
his  fingers  contemptuously. 

"If  you  could  only  find  a  way  to  make  him 
fight,  eh  r '  This  was  the  Deacon 's  contribution. 

The  Cricket  snarled.  "You  can't  make  that 
fellow  do  anything !  The  only  part  of  the  fight 
ing  game  that  he  likes  is  the  split-up  in  the  box- 
office.  When  he  works  on  a  percentage  of  the 
house  you  can  see  him  counting  the  gallery  be 
tween  rounds  and  figuring  how  much  is  coming 
to  him.  And  he  never  misses  it  very  far 
either. ' ' 

"Nevertheless  and  notwithstanding, "  argued 
the  Deacon,  "he  can  fight  if  he  wants  to." 

"That's  the  point!"  cried  Tierney.  "He 
ain't  wantin'  to." 

"  'A  bird  that  can  sing  and  won't  sing  ought 
to  be  made  to  sing, '  ' '  quoted  the  Deacon. 

' '  He  ought  to  be  shot ! ' '  growled  the  Cricket. 

"Our  little  friend  here,"  explained  the  Dea- 
[150] 


NO   BUSINESS 


con,  "but  a  couple  of  centuries  on  Isidore  last 
Tuesday  night.    The  memory  lingers." 

4 '  You  know  it  does ! ' '  burst  out  the  Cricket. 
"I'd  like  to  be  down  to  weight  again  and  take 
it  out  of  his  hide ! '  * 

Patrick  Tierney  made  a  clucking  noise  with 
his  tongue  and  slid  the  cloth  over  the  bar  a  few 
times  before  he  spoke.  Then:  "You  can't  lick 
him  yourself,"  said  he,  "but  you  might  get  him 
licked  good  and  plenty." 

'  *  How  f ' '  demanded  the  Cricket  eagerly. 

Tierney  glanced  toward  the  door  and  lowered 
his  voice. 

"I've  got  a  lad  here,  sort  of  under  cover.  I 
was  figurin'  on  springin'  him  pretty  soon.  He's 
the  roughest  two-handed  mauler  you  ever  saw. 
Name's  Callahan,  an'  he'd  rather  fight  than  eat. 
He'd  give  Isidore  an  awful  cleanin  V 

"Yes,  if  he'd  stay  and  take  it!" 

Tierney  emitted  a  dry  chuckle. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  he.  "Tell  Isidore 
you've  got  a  sucker  for  him  an'  he  won't  train 
a  minute.  Make  the  cut  seventy-five-twenty- 
five,  an'  Isidore '11  stick  round  quite  a  while — 
for  the  long  end." 

"But  how  good  is  this  Callahan?"  asked  the 
Cricket. 

* '  Good  enough  to  make  you  open  your  lamps, 
my  son.  Come  over  to-morrow  afternoon  an' 
I'll  have  him  put  on  the  gloves  with  some  of  the 
gang.  If  you  don't  say  he's  the  roughest  wal 
loper  in  seven  counties,  the  joint  is  yours,  cash 
register  an'  all!" 

[151] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


' '  Fair  enough ! ' '  said  the  Cricket. 

"It  listens  well,"  said  the  Deacon,  nodding 
gravely.  ' '  Patrick,  another  small  libation  upon 
the  altar  of  friendship  and  we  're  on  our  way ! ' ' 

Tierney  stared  at  the  swinging  door  until  it 
ceased  to  vibrate  behind  his  guests. 

' '  A  bird  that  can  sing  and  won 't  sing  ought  to 
be  made  to  sing,"  he  mused.  "An*  that's  true. 
This  bird  knows  all  the  notes,  but  is  there  a  way 
to  make  him  like  music,  I  wonder  I" 

n 

Isidore  Mandelbaum  did  not  fight  because  he 
loved  fighting.  A  stiff  jab  upon  his  prominent 
nose  had  no  charms  for  him ;  a  well-timed  hook 
to  the  point  of  the  chin  roused  in  him  no  wild 
enthusiasm  for  the  conflict.  Isidore  was  a  glad 
iator  for  revenue  only.  The  jingle  of  the  shek 
els  in  the  box-office  made  a  strong  appeal  to  his 
nature ;  the  soft  rustle  of  currency  was  soothing 
to  his  soul.  Propose  an  engagement  to  the  aver 
age  boxer  of  Isidore 's  caliber,  and  the  first  ques 
tion  would  never  vary:  "Who  with?"  Pro 
pose  one  to  Mandelbaum,  and  he  would  ask: 
"How  much?" 

Isidore,  acting  as  his  own  manager  for  eco 
nomical  reasons,  preferred  to  battle  for  a  flat 
sum — so  much  in  the  hand,  win,  lose  or  draw, 
before  he  entered  the  ring.  If  he  felt  he  could 
win  without  trouble  or  danger,  well  and  good. 
If  the  evening's  entertainment  was  not  to  his 
liking  Isidore  would  stumble  into  an  easy  swing, 

[152] 


NO   BUSINESS 


stop  the  glove  with  his  jaw  and  remain  upon  the 
floor  until  the  referee  signaled  " Cease  firing." 
For  this  inglorious  trait  he  was  called  a  quitter, 
and  his  intimates  often  remonstrated  with  him 
for  what  they  were  pleased  to  term  his  lack  of 
gameness. 

"Gameness  is  good — when  it  gets  you  some 
thing,"  Isidore  would  argue.  ''For  a  big  long 
end  I  can  be  as  game  as  anybody,  but  on  a  win, 
lose  or  draw  proposition  it  ain't  worth  while. 
Why  should  I  get  my  face  knocked  off  me  when 
all  I  get  is  just  so  much?" 

"But  every  time  you  quit  it  goes  as  a  knock 
out  on  your  record ! ' ' 

"The  only  record  I  keep,"  Isidore  would  re 
ply  calmly,  "  is  a  bank  book.  Those  knockouts 
are  in  there,  too,  but  they  don't  show." 

"You'll  never  get  to  be  a  champion  if  you 
let  all  these  dubs  lick  you." 

Isidore  had  a  counter  for  that  lead. 

"A  champion  has  to  cut  his  money  in  two 
with  some  bum  of  a  manager.  In  the  end  he 
ain't  got  anything.  Small  profits  and  quick  re 
turns  is  better." 

So,  dead  alike  to  ambition  and  shame,  Isidore 
Mandelbaum  went  his  devious  way,  fighting  like 
a  world's  champion  one  week  and  like  an  inebri 
ated  apple-woman  the  next.  It  was  all  the  same 
to  Isidore.  He  was,  as  he  often  said,  a  business 
man  in  a  business  that  was  no  business. 

This  is  why  he  was  deeply  interested  in  a 
proposition  submitted  by  Cricket  Cassidy,  a 
former  lightweight  of  great  renown,  but  now 
[153] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


doing  the  best  lie  could,  who  met  Isidore  by 
carefully  arranged  accident  one  evening. 

''Well,  and  how's  Kid  Hogan  and  all  the 
other  Hogans?"  asked  the  Cricket. 

Isidore  regarded  the  Cricket  with  a  shrewd, 
beady  eye,  but  read  nothing  more  than  cheery 
good  nature  in  Cassidy's  countenance. 

"All  right,  I  guess, "  said  Isidore. 

"How's  business?" 

"Business  is  bad,"  admitted  Isidore.  "Rot 
ten  bad.  You  saw  that  fight  last  week?  Here  I 
am  winning  all  by  myself  and  making  a  chop 
ping  block  out  of  this  Swede — and  then  I  come 
to  in  my  corner  with  the  smelling  salts  under 
my  nose." 

"Tough  luck!"  said  the  Cricket.  "He's  a 
dangerous  guy,  that  Swanson.  Always  got  a 
kick  left  in  him." 

"Like  a  government  mule!"  agreed  Isidore 
fervently.  "And,  would  you  believe  it,  they  say 
I  quit!" 

Cricket  was  not  one  of  Isidore's  intimates, 
and  to  the  public  at  large  Kid  Hogan  did  not  tell 
all  his  business,  holding  that  to  be  bad  business. 
Cassidy,  who  had  seen  the  battle  under  discus 
sion,  and  had  watched  Isidore  bob  up  at  the 
count  of  ten  and  walk  steadily  to  his  corner 
without  so  much  as  a  tremor  of  the  knees, 
clucked  sympathetically. 

"You  don't  say!" 

"But  I  do  say!  And  for  that,"  wailed  Isi 
dore — "for  that  they  have  canceled  two  dates 
[154] 


NO   BUSINESS 


on  me.  I  suppose  I  should  stay  in  there  and  be 
knocked  dead!  Business  is  bad,  sure." 

1  i  I  think  I  know  where  you  can  pick  up  some 
soft  money. ' ' 

Isidore  was  on  his  guard  at  once. 

"I  don't  split  with  anybody!"  said  he  quick 
ly.  "It  ain't  business,  and  why  should  I  when 
I  make  my  own  matches  and  do  my  own  manag 
ing?  No  split!" 

The  Cricket  laughed. 

"Forget  it!  I'm  not  looking  for  anything. 
I  thought  I  could  put  something  in  your  way, 
that's  all,  but  if " 

"Well,"  said  Isidore  cautiously,  "I  can  al 
ways  listen." 

"All  right,  listen  to  this :  Over  at  Point  Rich 
mond  they've  got  a  roughneck  named  Callahan. 
The  railroad  men  think  he's  a  wonder  because 
he 's  won  a  couple  of  bar-room  brawls.  I  heard 
about  him  and  went  to  see  Tierney.  You  know 
Tierney?" 

"Everybody  knows  Tierney,"  said  Isidore 
impatiently.  "Go  on." 

"Well,  Tierney  says  Callahan  is  a  false 
alarm,  and  that  the  first  fairly  good  boy  he 
meets  will  lick  him  in  a  round.  Tierney  says 
he's  muscle-bound  and  can't  get  out  of  his  own 
way.  Tierney  thinks  that  Young  Morrissey 
could  put  Callahan  away  in  jigtime." 

"Young  Morrissey!"  sneered  Isidore. 
"Didn't  I  lick  him  three  times?" 

"Of  course,  but  don't  you  see  what  a  cinch 
that  makes  it  for  you?"  argued  the  Cricket. 
[155] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Tierney  says  he  would  rather  have  you,  on 
account  of  your  punch.  Now  you  write  Tier- 
ney  and  make  this  match — he's  got  a  piece  of 
the  fight  club  over  there — and  you  demand  a 
percentage  basis.  Make  it  seventy-five  and 
twenty-five,  or  eighty-twenty.  It'll  be  just  the 
same  as  finding  it,  and " 

"Say,  wait  a  minute!"  Isidore  was  a  busi 
ness  man,  with  all  a  business  man's  suspicions. 
"Where  do  you  come  in  on  this  and  what  do 
you  get  out  of  it?" 

"Bonehead!"  cried  the  Cricket.  "The  bet 
ting,  of  course.  What  else  ?  The  railroad  men 
and  the  town  sports  will  bet  their  shirts  on  Cal- 
lahan.  Me  and  Tierney  will  clean  up  all  the 
loose  dough  in  town!" 

"And  Tierney  will  bet  on  me?"  demanded 
Isidore. 

"Sure  he  will!  He  says  Callahan  won't  lay  a 
glove  on  you — too  slow  and  telegraphs  every 
thing.  Tierney  says  it  will  be  the  softest  money 
that  ever  went  hunting  a  home.  You  might 
even  bet  some  yourself." 

"I  never  bet,"  said  Isidore  firmly. 

"Well,  think  it  over.  Tierney  is  already  try 
ing  to  get  in  touch  with  Young  Morrissey.  Of 
course  he  won't  be  such  a  safe  betting  proposi 
tion  as  you,  but " 

"  I  '11  write  him  to-night ! ' '  said  Isidore.  ' '  You 
— you're  sure  you  don't  want  anything,  eh?" 

"Not  a  thing  but  the  betting  privilege!" 
laughed  the  Cricket.  "Say,  you  don't  think 
anybody  in  the  world  is  on  the  level,  do  you ! ' ' 
[156] 


NO   BUSINESS 


"In  this  business — no,"  answered  Isidore 
Mandelbaum,  simply  and  truthfully.  ' '  They  got 
to  show  me." 

"That's  right,  kid,"  agreed  the  Cricket. 
"Take  no  chances." 

"Just  Pat  Tierney,  Point  Eichmond — that'll 
get  him,  will  it  1 "  asked  Isidore. 

1  ( Care  of  the  Golden  Gate  Saloon.    Yes. ' ' 

"Much  obliged,"  said  Isidore.  "I'd  do  as 
much  for  you. ' ' 

"I'll  bet  you  would!"  said  the  Cricket  heart- 
ily. 

in 

Once  more  Patrick  Tierney  was  alone  with  his 
art  gallery  and  engaged  in  the  thoughtful  occu 
pation  of  polishing  the  bar  with  a  damp  rag. 
To  him  came  the  Deacon,  as  solemn  as  usual, 
but  with  a  faint  flicker  in  his  eye. 

"Patrick,"  said  he,  "I  hope  I  see  you  well." 

"You  do  if  your  eyesight  ain't  failin',"  an 
swered  the  proprietor,  hospitably  reaching  for 
a  bottle. 

1  i  If  you  insist, ' '  murmured  the  Deacon,  help 
ing  himself  sparingly.  He  lifted  his  glass. 

"Here's  success  to  crime!"  said  he. 

' '  Success ! ' '  echoed  Tierney.  ' '  And  how 's  it 
going?" 

"Great!  Immense!"  The  Deacon  coughed 
noisily  as  he  set  down  the  glass.  "Patrick,  a 
gift  horse  is  a  sacred  animal  and  I  always  did 
like  cooking  whisky,  but  what  do  you  make  that 
stuff  of?  Fusel  oil  or  just  plain  vitriol?  Wowl 
[157] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


I  feel  like  a  new  man — purified  by  fire,  as  it 
were!" 

"A-ah,  where  do  you  get  that?"  grumbled 
Tierney.  "That's  the  reg'lar  bar  whisky." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it.  Syn 
thetic  hooch,  made  of  something  almost  as  good. 
Guaranteed  to  remove  corns,  warts,  wens  or 
bunions,  as  well  as  the  lining  of  the  human  stom 
ach  !  And  that 's  not  all  that  ails  it  either ! ' ' 

"Every  man  to  his  own  taste,"  said  Tierney 
sullenly.  "They  like  it  over  here.  What's  the 
news?" 

"Briefly,  and  in  words  of  one  syllable,"  said 
the  Deacon,  "the  tip  got  round  town  that  Isi 
dore  was  framed  up  for  a  benefit  with  an  in 
ferior  person  named  Callahan.  The  impression 
prevailed  that  Isidore  could  not  lose — wouldn't 
be  allowed  to  lose.  In  short,  a  lead  pipe.  You 
know  how  it  is.  Pick  three  men,  swear  'em  to 
secrecy,  pledge  their  sacred  words  of  honor 
that  it  goes  no  farther,  and  all  San  Francisco  is 
wise  by  night.  The  same  end  might  be  served 
by  hiring  the  front  page  of  a  morning  paper,  but 
our  method  was  cheaper.  We  picked  the  right 
men  to  tell,  Patrick. ' ' 

"Sure.    And  then!" 

'  *  Then  the  Mandelbaum  money  began  to  make 
its  appearance  in  the  pool  rooms.  It  came  in 
bunches,  bundles,,  bales.  Never  have  I  seen  it 
respond  more  nobly.  How  these  surethingers 
do  climb  aboard  when  they  think  they've  got  a 
cinch,  eh!  All  in  the  world  that  they  want  is 
one  hundred  per  cent  the  best  of  it.  Give  'em 
[158] 


NO   BUSINESS 


that  much  of  an  edge  and  they'll  bet  you  until 
the  cows  come  home.  We  could  have  placed  a 
lot  more." 

"Could  you  now?"  said  Tierney.  "Well, 
well!" 

"How's  Callahan?" 

"Trained  to  the  minute.  In  the  pink  o*  con 
dition,  as  the  sportin'  reporters  say,  though 
pink  is  no  color  for  a  fightin'  man." 

"And  confident  of  victory,  eh?  You  know 
they  always  say  that  too." 

* '  Confident  is  no  name  for  it,  Deacon,  no  name 
for  it.  He  was  tellin'  me  last  night  what  he's 
goin'  to  buy  with  the  long  end." 

The  Deacon  nodded  approvingly. 

"That's  the  spirit!  Our  friend  Isidore  will 
be  pained,  not  to  say  shocked  and  grieved.  He 
hasn't  trained  a  lick  for  Callahan." 

"Tell  me  now,"  said  Tierney,  "did  he  ever 
train  in  his  whole  life  ?  If  so,  they  kept  word  of 
it  from  me. ' ' 

"His  notion  of  vigorous  training  would  be  to 
run  around  the  block  once  after  a  hearty  meal, ' ' 
said  the  Deacon.  "Tell  your  boy  to  rough  it 
with  him  from  the  start,  haul  him  all  over  the 
ring,  lay  on  him  in  the  clinches — anything  to  get 
him  tired.  Then  when  he  begins  to  puff — bang ! 
bang!  in  the  pantry,  and  Isidore  will  fold  up 
like  a  wet  towel. ' ' 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Tierney. 

Calm  and  untroubled  by  any  hint  of  impend 
ing  disaster  Isidore  Mandelbaum  came  to  the 

[159] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


slaughter.  He  brought  with  him — no,  for  they 
paid  their  own  way — two  more  or  less  faithful 
retainers,  Mush  McManus  and  Gopher  Galle- 
gher,  born  respectively  Marcus  Cohn  and  Meyer 
Goldstone.  With  characteristic  caution  Isidore 
timed  his  arrival  with  the  opening  of  the  doors 
of  the  pavilion,  for  he  had  agreed  to  a  percent 
age  basis  and  was  interested  in  the  paid  admis 
sions.  He  took  his  stand  at  the  main  entrance, 
where  he  assisted  the  ticket-taker  to  handle  the 
reserves,  and  also  kept  him  from  passing  in  his 
friends  for  nothing.  Marcus  and  Meyer  per 
formed  a  like  office  at  the  gallery  door. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  dress  for  the 
ring  Isidore  called  Meyer  Goldstone  to  the  main 
entrance  and  left  him  there  on  guard. 

"Aw,  w'at's  t'  matter  witcha?"  snarled  the 
ticket-taker.  "  T '  house  is  full,  ain  't  it  ?  " 

'  *  Sure ! ' '  said  Isidore  cheerfully.  * '  But  there 
might  be  some  standing  room  left.  Keep  your 
lamps  on  this  bird,  Meyer."  So  saying,  Isidore 
picked  up  his  suitcase  and  departed  for  the 
dressing  room. 

Most  boxers  require  more  valeting  than  a 
prince  of  royal  blood,  but  attendants  cost  mon 
ey,  and  Isidore  would  pay  no  man  to  lace  his 
shoes  and  help  him  on  with  his  trunks.  He 
dressed  without  assistance  and  sat  down  on  the 
rubbing  table  to  wait  the  call.  The  last  prelim 
inary  bout  was  under  way,  and  Isidore  knew  he 
would  not  have  long  to  wait.  As  he  sat  there, 
crossing  and  uncrossing  his  bare  legs,  unseeing 
eyes  fixed  on  the  wall  in  front  of  him,  was  he, 
[160] 


NO   BUSINESS 


perhaps,  thinking  of  his  unknown  opponent, 
wondering  what  he  was  like,  speculating  on  the 
power  of  his  punch?  Ah,  no. 

"The  house,"  thought  Isidore,  "will  run 
twelve  hundred.  Sixty  per  cent  to  the  manage 
ment — the  robbers !  Forty  for  us  to  split.  Four 
times  two  is  eight,  four  times  one  is  four.  Four 
hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  and  seventy-five 
per  cent  of  that  again  makes — yep !  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty."  And  his  smile  was  the  smile 
of  a  young  man  without  a  worry  in  the  world. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  with  a  crash  and 
a  large  man  stood  framed  in  the  aperture — a 
large,  wide  man  with  freckles,  a  sandy  mus 
tache  and  a  gray  sombrero  yanked  down  over 
steely  blue  eyes.  Isidore  looked  up,  startled, 
and  his  first  impression  was  an  unpleasant  one ; 
he  knew  instinctively  that  he  was  not  going  to 
care  for  this  person.  The  man  hesitated  an  in 
stant,  then  he  stepped  inside  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

"A  couple  or  three  words  with  you,  young 
feller ! ' '  said  he  gruffly. 

"You  got  a  nerve,  busting  in  like  this,"  Isi 
dore  began,  but  the  words  died  away.  The  big 
man's  coat  was  unbuttoned,  and  as  he  bent  for 
ward  it  swung  away  from  his  body  far  enough 
to  show  a  silver  star  upon  his  vest.  The  star 
bore  the  words  "Deputy  Sheriff."  "I — what 
can  I  do  for  you?"  asked  Isidore  politely.  "I 
ain't  done  nothing,  I  assure  you.  I'm  a 

stranger  here,  and " 

[161] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"It's  what  you're  going  to  do  to-night  that 
counts." 

' '  To-night  1 ' '  stammered  Isidore.  The  man 's 
words  were  ominous,;  his  manner  positively 
threatening. 

"Don't  stall.  You  got  me  the  first  time.  You 
fought  Bill  Ladd  over  here  last  April,  didn't 
you?" 

"Well?"    Isidore's  mouth  was  dry. 

"And  you  quit  like  a  dawg,  didn't  you?" 

"Mister,"  said  Isidore  earnestly,  "that's  all 
a  mistake.  They  told  you  wrong.  I  never  quit 
in  my " 

The  large  man  laughed  coarsely. 

"Tell  that  to  the  marines!"  said  he. 

"But,  mister " 

"Shut  up  till  I  get  done!  You  could  have 
won  that  fight  in  a  walk,  but  you  laid  down  after 
you  had  Bill  Ladd  licked — laid  down  for  one 
measly  little  poke  on  the  jaw.  Them  that  bet  on 
you  didn't  get  a  run  for  their  money.  The 
sheriff  of  this  county  was  one  of  'em,  sonny, 
and  he  hasn't  forgot  it.  He  framed  up  a  little 
surprise  party  for  you.  You're  going  to  fight 
on  the  square  to-night,  understand?  No  stall 
ing  and  no  quitting.  If  you  don't  win  you'd 
better  be  knocked  out  so  cold  that  it'll  take  a 
doctor  an  hour  to  bring  you  to — and  the  doc 
tor '11  be  at  the  ringside  too.  Lose  this  fight, 
and  you'll  go  to  jail  for  three  months.  Quit, 
and  you'll  be  with  us  for  six  months.  Sabe?" 

"But — but  you  can't "    The  words  came 

in  a  series  of  dry  croaks. 

[162] 


NO   BUSINESS 


"Oh,  yes,  I  can!  Obtaining  money  under 
false  pretenses.  Conspiracy  to  defraud  the 
public."  The  man  rolled  these  formidable 
phrases  under  his  tongue  with  too  evident  rel 
ish,  and  there  was  a  certain  grim  assurance  in 
his  manner  that  strangled  argument.  "Don't 
you  tell  me  what  can't  be  done.  You  know  what 
happened  to  Kid  Banks,  don 't  you  ?  Six  months 
on  the  rock  pile,  making  little  ones  out  of  big 
ones.  His  lawyers  cost  him  a  thousand,  and 
then  couldn't  do  anything  for  him.  He  thought 
he  could  pull  off  a  fake  fight  in  this  county.  The 
sheriff  is  a  bad  hombre.  When  he  goes  after  a 
crook  he  gets  him  good."  The  large  man  felt 
in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  two  shining  steel  cir 
clets,  which  jingled  as  he  handled  them.  "You 

better  win  to-night,  sonny,  or "    The  sharp 

click  of  the  handcuffs  completed  the  threat. 

Isidore  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue. 

"And— if  I  win,  what?" 

The  big  man  grinned. 

"All  off.  Bygones  will  be  bygones.  Nothing 
doing.  But  if  you  lose " 

"Mister,"  said  Isidore  in  a  husky  whisper, 
1 1 1  give  you  my  paralyzed  word  of  honor  I  never 
had  the  intentions  of  losing  this  fight!" 

Marcus  and  Meyer  entered  the  dressing  room 
together.  "Callahan  is  in  the  ring  already," 
said  Marcus.  "Where's  the  bucket  and 
things?" 

The  large  man  turned  at  the  door  and  looked 
at  Mandelbaum. 

"I'll  be  at  the  ringside,"  said  he  with  sig- 
[163] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


nificance.  "Close  to  your  corner."  Then  he 
went  away. 

"Who  was  that  big  stiff?"  asked  Meyer. 
"Has  he  got  a  bet  on  this  fight,  or  something?" 

* '  No, ' '  said  Isidore  briefly  and  unhappily.  ' '  I 
have." 

"How  much?"  demanded  Marcus,  suddenly; 
interested. 

"Six  months !"  said  Isidore. 


IV 

Isidore  sat  in  his  corner  and  stared  at  his  op 
ponent.  For  the  first  time  a  new  element  had 
entered  his  calculations.  Callahan  looked  hard 
as  pig  iron.  He  also  had  the  appearance  of  phys 
ical  fitness,  and  none  of  the  nervousness  to  be 
expected  in  a  novice  making  his  initial  appear 
ance  against  a  seasoned  gladiator.  He  chatted 
and  laughed  with  his  seconds  as  they  laced  his 
gloves,  and  not  once  did  he  so  much  as  glance 
at  the  opposite  corner.  These  things  were  not 
lost  on  Isidore. 

"This  guy,"  said  he  with  conviction,  "has 
been  there  before.  He  ain't  worried  or  any 
thing.  Maybe  I  should  have  trained  for  him. ' ' 

* '  Ho ! ' '  said  Marcus.  ' '  You  can  lick  all  these 
near-fighters  without  no  more  than  a  clean 
shave!"  It  is  the  duty  of  a  second  to  hearten 
his  principal.  Isidore  glanced  along  the  ropes, 
and  there  sure  enough  was  the  large  man,  chat 
ting  with  a  companion  who  wore  a  neat  Van 
dyke  beard  and  spectacles. 
[164] 


NO   BUSINESS 


"The  doctor!"  thought  Isidore.  Then  bit 
terly  :  ' '  They  ain  't  leaving  me  a  single  out ! ' ' 

The  principals  were  presented  to  the  audi 
ence,  and  Callahan  received  a  tremendous  ova 
tion,  to  which  he  responded  by  bobbing  his  bul 
let  head  as  he  swaggered  back  to  his  corner.  Isi 
dore  was  hooted  unmercifully,  his  usual  recep 
tion  when  fighting  away  from  home.  Several 
aspiring  youths  shambled  into  the  ring  and 
were  introduced  by  the  Master  of  Ceremonies 
as  desiring  to  "meet  the  winner,"  after  which 
they  shook  hands  formally  with  Callahan  and 
Mandelbaum.  An  impatient  uproar  beat  down 
from  the  gallery: 

"Git  to  business!" 

"Bring  on  the  raw  meat!" 

' '  Hey,  Callahan !    You  know ! ' ' 

The  Master  of  Ceremonies  waved  his  pudgy 
arms  over  his  head. 

' '  Order,  please ! "  he  bellowed.  '  *  Must  have 
order!" 

A  bull-necked  man  shed  coat,  vest,  collar  and 
tie,  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  clambered  heavily 
through  the  ropes.  It  was  Butch  0  'Connor,  the 
referee.  He  strode  to  the  middle  of  the  ring 
and  beckoned  the  fighters  to  him.  Callahan 
approached,  grinning  cheerfully.  Isidore's 
face  wore  a  serious  expression.  He  had  for 
gotten  the  three  hundred  and  sixty  dollars. 

"Cheer  up!"  bantered  Callahan.  "The 
worst  is  yet  to  come!" 

"That's  for  you  to  find  out!"  snapped  Isi 
dore  venomously. 

[165] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"The  proper  spirit!"  commented  Butch. 
"Listen  now!" 

He  droned  through  the  familiar  instructions, 
gave  the  customary  warnings,  and  the  fighters 
nodded  and  returned  to  their  corners.  Isidore, 
resting  one  glove  lightly  on  the  topmost  rope, 
heard  the  Master  of  Ceremonies  bawling  the  an 
nouncement — heard,  but  took  no  heed.  Isidore 
was  looking  at  the  big  sandy  man.  The  sandy 
man  was  showing  something  to  his  bearded 
friend — something  which  he  held  cupped  in  both 
hands.  Through  his  fingers  Isidore  caught  the 
glint  of  bright  metal.  Both  were  laughing. 

"Let  'er  go!"  howled  the  Master  of  Cere 
monies. 

"Bong!  "said  the  bell. 

Callahan  shot  out  of  his  corner  as  if  released 
by  a  giant  spring.  He  rushed  at  Isidore,  aimed 
a  savage  right  uppercut  for  the  chin,  missed  by 
a  matter  of  inches  and  floundered  into  a  clinch, 
managing  to  step  on  Isidore 's  feet  as  he  did  so. 
The  sheer  force  of  his  attack  swept  Isidore 
backward  toward  his  own  corner. 

"Aw,  don't  fall  all  over  the  ring  that  way!" 
he  complained,  wriggling  free  and  escaping  into 
open  territory.  ' '  Make  a  nice  clean  fight  of  it ! " 

"I'll  clean  you!"  snarled  Callahan,  and 
rushed  again.  Isidore  side-stepped  neatly,  and 
peppered  him  with  stinging  left  jabs,  but  for  all 
visible  effect  he  might  have  been  prodding  a 
brick  wall.  Callahan  bore  in  close,  bent  on 
roughing  it,  and  again  Isidore  jabbed  and  side- 
[166] 


NO   BUSINESS 


stepped.    Immediately  a  shrill  voice  was  up 
lifted  at  the  ringside : 

'  *  Stay  with  him,  Callahan !    Wear  him  out ! ' ' 

Isidore  turned  his  head  slightly  and  his  as 
tonished  gaze  fell  upon  Cricket  Cassidy's  face, 
purple  with  enthusiasm  and  vocal  exertion. 
And  the  Cricket  had  said  that  Callahan  was 
easy,  asking  nothing  for  himself  but  the  betting 
privilege !  Would  he  bet  on  one  man  and  cheer 
for  another?  Never.  Of  a  sudden  Isidore 
Mandelbaum  felt  very  sick  indeed,  and  Callahan 
was  trying  to  make  him  sicker,  in  the  same 
place.  A  glove  thudded  below  Isidore's  float 
ing  ribs  into  the  unarmored  region  known  as 
the  pit  of  the  stomach. 

' '  Thatta  boy ! "  howled  the  Cricket.  ' '  Down 
stairs  ! ' ' 

There  was  no  time  to  meditate  upon  this  bit  of 
treachery  or  what  it  might  portend.  Isidore 
set  himself  solidly  upon  his  large  flat  feet  and 
began  to  fight.  Other  questions,  and  they 
swirled  in  his  brain,  must  wait ;  Callahan  would 
not.  So  the  round  ended  in  a  fierce  give-and- 
take  in  the  middle  of  the  ring.  Isidore,  because 
of  his  cleverness  at  evading  punishment,  had  a 
shade  the  better  of  it,  and  the  crowd  whooped 
joyously  at  the  bell. 

"Hey!  Don't  lose  your  head  an'  try  to  out- 
slug  this  guy!"  cautioned  Meyer  Goldstone. 
"Bough  stuff — that's  his  dish!  Box  him,  Izzy, 
box  him ! ' ' 

"I  been  framed,"  grunted  Isidore.  "They 
jobbed  me!" 

[167] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"Who  jobbed  you?"  asked  Marcus  Cohn, 
busy  with  a  towel. 

"Everybody!"  said  Isidore. 

"Well,  don't  lose  your  head,"  warned  Meyer. 
"Box  him.  Don't  slug." 

But  Callahan  would  not  box.  He  insisted  on 
fighting  with  both  hands  at  all  times.  The 
pretty  art  of  feinting  for  openings  interested 
him  not.  When  Isidore  sought  to  clinch  he  was 
jarred  loose  by  a  terrific  tattoo  upon  his  mid- 
section.  This  was  hardly  beneficial.  A  young 
man  in  perfect  condition  may  weather  such  an 
attack  for  a  time,  but  Isidore,  alas !  was  not  in 
perfect  condition.  His  habits  were  exemplary, 
but  they  did  not  include  the  long  runs  on  the 
road  which  make  for  endurance  or  the  physical 
exercises  that  strengthen  the  abdominal  mus 
cles.  Plainly  there  were  only  two  ways  to  stop 
the  epigastrial  bombardment:  the  first  was  to 
run;  the  second,  to  fight  Callahan  away  from 
close  quarters.  Isidore  remembered  the  large 
sandy  man  and  chose  the  latter. 

The  last  minute  of  the  second  round  was  a 
thrilling  session  for  the  spectators,  but  this  time 
the  honors  were  with  Ireland.  Isidore  managed 
to  plant  two  right  hooks  on  Callahan 's  left  eye, 
almost  closing  it,  but  just  before  the  bell  rang 
Callahan  retaliated  with  a  whizzing  uppercut 
that  sent  Isidore  reeling,  and  his  legs  played  him 
queer  tricks  as  he  walked  to  his  corner.  His 
brain  was  whirling,  but  he  saw  one  thing 
clearly :  the  sandy  man  was  scowling  at  him  and 
fingering  something  in  his  coat  pocket. 
[168] 


NO   BUSINESS 


1  'Didn't  see  that  one!"  gasped  Isidore,  while 
Marcus  and  Meyer  plied  towel  and  ice  water 
desperately.  "Tough,  ain't  he?" 

In  the  other  corner  Callahan  regarded  his 
handlers  with  a  lopsided  smile. 

"Who  d'  hell  told  me  this  boy  couldn't  hit?" 
he  mumbled  thickly.  "A  coupla  inches  lower 
down,  an'  fa-a-re-thee-well.  He  near  tore  me 
roof  off!" 

It  was  in  the  third  round  that  Isidore  ducked 
into  an  uppercut,  blocking  it  with  his  nose.  To 
his  other  troubles  was  added  acute  pain.  After 
that  it  became  a  fight,  sans  art,  sans  science, 
sans  everything  but  the  spirit  that  must  have 
moved  the  cave  men  to  combat.  Callahan  and 
Mandelbaum,  two  men  as  unlike  as  unlike  can 
be,  met  in  the  middle  of  the  ring  and  reverted 
to  first  principles,  but  instead  of  clubs  and  stone 
hatchets  they  used  their  fists,  while  the  specta 
tors  howled  as  their  shaggy  ancestors  must 
have  howled  at  the  sight  of  human  blood.  At 
such  a  time  one  sees  how  easily  the  veneer  of 
civilization  peels  off  the  soul  of  man. 

Callahan  forgot  everything  but  the  dark, 
sneering  face  in  front  of  him.  Isidore,  dazed 
and  shaken,  but  of  superior  intelligence,  remem 
bered  but  one  thing — the  sandy  man  with  the 
handcuffs. 

At  long  intervals  each  was  in  his  corner,  gasp 
ing,  incoherent,  deaf  alike  to  entreaty  and  ad 
vice.  It  was  a  real  fight  of  the  sort  seldom 
seen  between  professionals  these  days,  and  for 
the  time  the  crowd  forgot  to  be  partisan.  If 
[169] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


the  boys  in  the  gallery  did  not  love  Isidore  they 
at  least  respected  him  for  what  they  called  his 
gameness.  After  each  round  they  looked  at 
each  other  and  said: 
11  Well,  watta you  t'ink  of  dat,  hey?" 
There  came  a  time  when  darkness  enveloped 
Isidore  and  swallowed  him  up.  One  instant  he 
had  been  standing  toe  to  toe  with  Callahan, 
fighting  like  a  fury ;  the  next  he  was  falling,  fall 
ing,  falling  through  a  bottomless  black  void. 
After  an  eternity  of  oblivion  the  gloom  lifted 
slightly,  and  Isidore  found  himself  huddled  up 
on  his  hands  and  knees,  underneath  the  ropes, 
staring  at  a  red  pool  on  the  white  canvas.  As 
from  a  great  distance  he  heard  a  singsong  voice 
calling  "Six I" 

Nauseated  and  dizzy,  Isidore  lifted  his  eyes 
from  the  pool,  and  there  below  him,  at  less  than 
arm's  length,  was  a  large  man  with  a  sandy 
mustache  and  steely  blue  eyes  that  glared  up 
at  him  from  under  the  brim  of  a  gray  sombrero. 
He  seemed  angry  about  something;  vaguely  Isi 
dore  wondered  why. 

The  man's  lips  moved;  Isidore  tried  to  catch 
the  message,  but  could  not. 

The  distant  voice  chanted  "Seven!" 
In  his  benumbed  brain  an  idea  began  to  shape 
itself:  Isidore  knew  only  that  the  large  sandy 
man  was  the  key  to  a  tremendous  situation  in 
which  his  future  was  involved.    But  what  was 
it  ?    Isidore  shook  his  head,  hoping  that  it  would 
clear;  the  sandy  man  misunderstood  the  motion. 
He  thrust  his  closed  fist  out  over  the  ring  floor, 
[170] 


NO  BUSINESS 


and  as  the  fingers  opened  Isidore  caught  a 
glimpse  of  silver.  Money?  No,  a  silver  star. 
The  bright  flash  of  the  metal  struck  a  beam 
into  his  muddled  brain;  memory  returned  to 
him.  Six  months  in  the  county  jail!  A  thou 
sand  dollars,  and  the  lawyers  couldn't  do  any 
thing! 

"Eight!" 

"You  know  what  you'll  get  if  you  quit!" 
The  sandy  man  was  making  a  megaphone  out 
of  his  hands. 

A  dull  roar  filled  the  air.  It  was  the  gallery 
celebrating  in  advance  of  Callahan's  victory. 
Callahanf  Yes,  he  must  be  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity.  Isidore  Mandelbaum,  who  had  never 
known  the  true  meaning  of  gameness,  heaved  a 
sigh  that  was  also  a  groan  and,  turning  himself 
about,  prepared  to  rise.  He  balanced  himself 
on  both  hands,  waiting,  and  as  he  waited  the 
last  shred  of  mist  cleared  from  his  brain. 
"Nine!" 

Half  a  second  now.  Isidore  remembered 
something  he  had  heard  about  Bob  Fitzsimmons 
in  his  fight  with  Corbett — no,  not  Corbett.  It 
was  Hall,  at  New  Orleans.  Isidore  came  up 
slowly,  just  as  the  referee's  finger  poised  on  the 
final  down  stroke  that  would  have  marked  the 
end  of  the  fight.  His  open  hands  dangled  at 
his  sides.  He  reeled  this  way  and  that,  his 
right  arm  swaying  at  his  hip.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  glassy  stare;  his  lower  lip  drooped 
ludicrously.  He  was  such  a  pitiable  spectacle 
that  Callahan  dropped  his  gloves  to  laugh. 

[171] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Seven  minutes  later  Callahan  became  aware 
of  a  strong  smell  of  ammonia  and  opened  his 
eyes.  All  about  him  were  stern  faces  and  ac 
cusing  eyes. 

"Wha — wha's  happened?"  he  muttered. 

"What  happened!"  cried  the  man  who  held 
the  bottle  of  smelling  salts.  "You  thought  he 
was  out,  but  he  was  only  stallin'  to  get  your 
guard  down!  He  knocked  you  dead  in  the 
eighth  round — that's  what  happened!" 


Patrick  Tierney  sat  in  the  back  room  of  the 
Golden  Gate  Saloon,  alone.  The  San  Francisco 
contingent  had  departed,  jubilant,  save  for  a 
small  man  in  a  checkered  suit  and  a  tall  man 
whose  usually  somber  countenance  wore  an 
added  gloom.  Point  Richmond  had  retired  for 
the  night. 

A  creaking  footfall  broke  the  silence ;  it  was 
that  of  a  large  sandy  man  trying  to  walk  on 
his  toes. 

"Well,  Pat,"  said  he,  "I've  got  to  hand  it 
to  you !  It  worked  like  a  charm.  Who  would 
have  thought  he  was  as  game  as  that,  eh?" 

* '  He  had  to  be, ' '  said  Tierney  succinctly.  He 
drew  out  a  thick  roll  of  bills  and  counted  off  a 
certain  sum. 

"You  cleaned  up,  did  you?"  asked  the  large 
man. 

Tierney  nodded. 

1 1  Here  and  across  the  Bay, ' '  said  he.  ' '  Most 
[172] 


NO   BUSINESS 


of  it  over  there  though. "  He  handed  some  bills 
to  the  sandy  man,  who  counted  them  carefully, 
for  he  knew  Tierney.  Then  he  tucked  them  in 
one  vest  pocket,  while  from  the  other  he  drew  a 
small  silver  star  and  from  his  coat  a  pair  of 
handcuffs. 

"Guess  I  won't  have  any  more  use  for  these, " 
said  he. 

*  *  No, ' '  said  Tierney,  recovering  his  property. 
After  a  time  he  laughed  silently,  rocking  back 
and  forth  in  his  chair. 

"The  bird  didn't  like  music  any  too  well," 
he  chuckled,  * '  but  between  us  we  found  a  way  to 
make  him  sing  the  notes  1 ' ' 


[173] 


OUT  OF  HIS  CLASS 


THE  young  man  upon  whom  Nature  has 
bestowed  barely  enough  forehead  to  keep 
his  hair  out  of  his  eyes  should  shun  high 
brow  society  and  all  forms  of  art.    The  game 
is    hopelessly    beyond    him,    the    cards    are 
'  '  stacked, ' '  and  he  loses  even  when  he  wins.    In 
proof  of  this  statement,  we  respectfully  refer 
the  reader  to  the  following  passages  from  the 
life  of  the  eminent  Mr.  Joseph  0  'Malley. 

O'Malley  was  not  always  eminent,  but  owed 
his  rise  in  life  to  a  jaw  of  chilled  steel,  a  heart 
that  knew  fear  only  by  reputation,  two  mallet- 
like  fists,  and  the  ability — as  well  as  the  inclina 
tion — to  hit  with  them  at  any  time  and  from  any 
position.  Many  have  claimed  credit  for  dis 
covering  this  wonderful  fighting  machine,  but  it 
was  the  sporting  editor  of  the  "  Daily  Ava 
lanche"  who  set  Joseph's  youthful  feet  on  the 
road  to  fame  and  fortune.  The  sporting  editor 
did  not  realize  it  at  the  time,  and  therefore 
deserves  none  of  the  credit  he  has  been  claim 
ing;  he  merely  thought  he  was  playing  an  ex 
tremely  rough  practical  joke  on  an  unsuspecting 
tramp  fighter.  Seeing  that  he  still  poses  in  print 

[174] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


as  0  'Malley 's  Columbus,  it  might  be  just  as  well 
to  tell  the  real  truth  about  that  discovery. 

The  hour  was  late,  his  copy  was  all  in,  and 
the  sporting  editor  of  the  "Avalanche"  was 
about  to  quit  and  call  it  a  day  when  the  narrow 
chute  leading  to  his  seven  by  nine  sanctum  was 
blocked  by  two  figures.  The  first  was  that  of 
a  bright-eyed  but  grubby  little  man  in  a  stained 
and  shapeless  suit  of  loud  checks.  The  pattern 
was  thickly  dotted  with  tiny  holes  burned  in  the 
cloth,  and  these  established  the  status  of  the 
visitor  at  once — a  "blind-baggage  tourist/'  a 
traveller  contributing  nothing  to  the  upkeep  of 
the  right  of  way.  His  flat-brimmed  brown 
derby  hat  was  smooth  and  shiny  and  reflected 
the  light  like  a  polished  shell.  A  dingy  red 
necktie,  a  rhinestone  pin  and  a  thirty-five-cent 
cameo  ring  completed  the  picture. 

Hovering  in  the  wake  of  this  shabby  pilot  was 
a  bullet-headed  boy  with  a  tremendous  shock  of 
straw-colored  hair,  one  cauliflower  ear  of  amaz 
ing  proportions,  and  a  decided  cast  in  his  left 
eye.  His  clothing  was,  if  anything,  more  dis 
reputable  than  that  of  his  companion — a  cap, 
a  sweater,  and  a  seven-dollar  suit,  and  all  had 
seen  hard  wear  under  varying  weather  condi 
tions. 

"Sportin'  editor?"  briskly  asked  the  grubby 
one,  stepping  forward. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  newspaper  man,  eying 
his  callers  with  a  chilling  lack  of  interest. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you!"  exclaimed  he  of  the 
loud  checks,  wringing  the  sporting  editor 's  limp 
[175] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


hand.  ' '  My  name 's  Arthur — Lew  Arthur — an ' 
I'm  managin'  this  boy  here.  Shake  hands, 
Joe!" 

The  bullet-headed  youth  bashfully  offered  a 
dirty  paw  and  retreated  to  a  position  at  his 
manager's  flank. 

1  'We 're  lookin'  for  a  crack  at  somo  of  these 
lightweights,  Joe  and  me,"  cheerfully  con 
tinued  the  spokesman.  "  We  don't  bar  nobody. 
First  come,  first  served;  'at's  us.  To  look  at 
him,  you  wouldn't  think  he's  the  fightin'est  lit 
tle  fool  'at  ever  pulled  on  a  glove,  but  he  is,  pal, 
he  is !  Yes,  sir,  mingle  is  his  middle  name " 

"What's  the  rest  of  his  name?"  The  sport 
ing  editor's  tone  and  manner  were  not  encour 
aging,  but  the  grubby  young  man  ignored  them. 

"O'Malley — Joe  O'Malley,  an'  say,  you  ain't 
got  no  idea  what  a  devasticatin'  bear  cat  he  is 
when  he  hears  'at  bell  ring !  He  fights  just  be 
cause  he  loves  it,  pal;  it's  meat  an'  drink  to 
him,  yes,  an'  tapioca  puddin'  too.  Chuck  him 
in  the  ring  wit'  anybody — the  tougher  they  come 
the  better  he  likes  'em — leave  him  there  six, 
ten,  twenty  rounds,  an'  I  give  you  my  paralyzed 
word  of  honor,  pal,  it's  just  the  same's  sendin* 
a  hungry  guy  to  a  banquet!  He  eats  it,  Joe 
does,  an'  he  ain't  never  found  nobody  yet  that 
could  make  him  back  up.  First  time  I  seen  him 
step,  I  pegs  him  for  a  comin'  champioi}  o'  the 
world.  'At's  why  I  hooked  up  wit'  him  as 
manager " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  sporting  editor,  glancing 
at  the  devasticating  bear  cat,  who  met  his  eyes 
[176] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


with  a  sheepish  grin  and  then  looked  suddenly 
away  in  two  directions  at  once,  "but  he  hasn't 
any  record " 

"No  record!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Arthur,  with 
well-feigned  amazement.  "Didn't  we  rock  Kid 
Swiftly  to  sleep  in  Gol 'field?  Didn't  we  knock 
Young  Dutchy  dead  wit '  one  punch  ?  Didn  't  we 
git  a  draw  wit  Groniger  in  his  own  town1?  No 
record!  Why,  pal,  where  you  been  all  this 
time?" 

"Eight  here,  but  I  never  heard  of  O'Malley 
"before  you  blew  in  and  began  three-sheeting 
him  all  over  the  place.  I  never  heard  of  the 
boys  that  you  say  he's  licked.  I  suppose  you 
want  to  get  him  a  match — is  that  the  idea?" 

"Pal,"  said  the  little  manager  earnestly, 
"you're  a  mind  reader — you  ain't  no  sportin' 
editor.  I  not  only  want  to  git  him  a  match,  but 
I  got  to  git  him  a  match  or  we  don't  eat.  Ain't 
that  so,  Joe?" 

The  fighter  grinned  sheepishly  and  nodded. 

The  sporting  editor  also  grinned,  for  an  idea 
had  come  his  way — a  practical  joke  in  the  mak 
ing,  with  0  'Malley  on  the  receiving  end. 

"How  would  you  like  to  take  a  crack  at 
Dynamite  Danny  O'Brien?"  he  asked. 

"Anybody  at  all,  pal!"  cried  the  manager. 
"As  the  Colonel  says,  dee-lighted!  Hey, 
Joe?" 

"Uh,  huh,"  assented  O'Malley. 

"Danny's  a  tough  boy,"  said  the  sporting 
editor. 

[177] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


' '  Tough  boys  is  right  where  we  live ! ' '  boasted 
Arthur. 

"He's  been  stopping  all  these  pork-an '-bean- 
ers  in  a  round  or  two. ' ' 

"Git  him  for  us,  pal,  'at's  all  we  ask!" 

"He  hits  like  a  mule  kicking." 

"So  do  we.  You  don't  know  this  boy,  pal. 
He  kin  trade  slams  wit'  any  of  'em." 

1 '  Nobody  has  ever  made  0  'Brien  back  up. ' ' 

"I  like  to  have  'em  fetch  it  right  to  me,"  said 
O'Malley  suddenly,  and  as  suddenly  subsided. 

"  See  ? "  cried  his  manager.  '  *  What  did  I  tell 
you,  hey  ?  He  jus '  loves  it,  Joe  does !  He  don 't 
git  no  fun  out  o'  fightin'  'less  they  fights  him 
hard." 

1 1  Then  he  '11  have  a  perfectly  lovely  time  next 
Friday  night,"  said  the  sporting  editor  with  a 
trace  of  grimness. 

"And  you'll  fix  it  with  the  club?" 

"I'll  telephone  the  promoter  in  the  morning. 
He's  got  an  office  in  the  Commonwealth  Build 
ing — fifth  floor.  Better  take  your  boy  round 
there  at  noon.  No,  never  mind  thanking  me." 

The  sporting  editor  watched  the  grubby  little 
manager  herd  his  fighter  down  the  passage  and 
into  the  elevator.  "Another  hobo  with  a  meal 
ticket,"  thought  he.  "Another  tramp  trying 
to  break  into  the  game.  Oh,  well,  there's  only 
one  thing  about  a  meal  ticket:  it's  no  good  till 
it's  punched.  And  this  one  will  get  some 
punching ! '  ' 

Now,  Danny  0  'Brien  was  a  local  product  who 
had  fought  himself  out  of  material  by  reason  of 
[178]  . 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


the  roughness  with  which  he  handled  his  oppo 
nents.  Not  quite  good  enough  for  the  first  flight, 
he  had  devastated  the  second  and  third,  and  a 
match  with  him  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a 
round-trip  ticket  to  dreamland.  There  was  no 
competition  for  the  doubtful  privilege  of  meet 
ing  him  under  the  shaded  arc  lights.  He  had 
no  science,  no  knowledge  of  boxing,  and  felt  that 
he  needed  none.  He  used  his  left  hand  only  to 
create  openings  for  his  deadly  right,  which  had 
earned  for  him  the  name  of  Dynamite  Danny. 
He  was  more  than  pleased  to  meet  the  unknown 
O'Malley  in  a  six-round  encounter,  and  came 
to  the  fray  confident  of  its  conclusion — so  confi 
dent  that  he  had  not  annoyed  himself  with  the 
slight  detail  of  training.  Why  train  when  all 
his  fights  ended  inside  the  three-round  mark? 

What  happened  to  Dynamite  Danny  is  a  mat 
ter  of  history  and  also  of  accurate  record.  The 
latter  may  be  found  in  the  vest-pocket  annuals, 
but  not  under  the  name  of  O'Brien.  See 
O'Malley. 

When  the  bell  sounded  Dynamite  Danny  went 
briskly  to  work,  as  was  his  wont,  and  just  as 
briskly  there  sprang  to  meet  him  a  trim,  flat- 
muscled  little  thunderbolt  under  an  immense 
thatch  of  straw  colored  hair.  ' '  Huh ! ' '  thought 
Danny,  who  was  accustomed  to  cautious  oppo 
nents.  ''This  guy  don't  know  who  I  am — he 
ain't  afraid,  nor  nothing!" 

O'Brien  introduced  himself  by  means  of  a 
right  hook  aimed  at  the  jaw.  The  blond  un 
known  ducked,  suffering  a  glancing  blow  upon 
[179] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


his  cauliflower  ear,  countered  with  a  stiff,  dig 
ging  jolt  under  the  heart — and  the  battle  was 
on.  And  such  a  battle !  The  irresistible  force 
had  encountered  the  immovable  obstacle,  each 
possessing  elements  of  the  other.  Dynamite 
Danny  set  his  teeth  and  whaled  away  with  his 
deadly  right;  Joe  O'Malley  set  his  teeth  and 
met  it — and  a  little  bit  more.  The  straw-colored 
hair  rocked  and  tossed  under  the  brutal  assault ; 
O'Brien's  mid  section  quivered  under  a  re 
sponding  tattoo.  No  ground  was  given  and  no 
quarter  asked;  it  was  five  rounds  of  savage 
fighting  crowded  into  one,  and  when  the  bell 
struck  the  boys  apart  and  sent  them  to  their 
corners  the  spectators  leaped  to  their  feet  and 
yelled  themselves  hoarse.  The  grubby  little 
manager,  deftly  plying  a  sponge,  caught  the 
sporting  editor's  eye — and  winked. 

It  was  in  the  third  round  that  Dynamite 
Danny  began  to  weaken.  He  had  found  a  man 
whom  he  could  not  hurt  with  his  right  hand — a 
man  who  had  been  hurting  him  with  both  hands 
and  who  seemed  willing — yes,  even  anxious — • 
to  hurt  him  some  more.  The  instant  that  the 
sting  went  out  of  Danny's  blows,  O'Malley 
swarmed  all  over  him,  beating  down  his  waver 
ing  defense  with  a  shower  of  jolting  hooks  and 
swings.  0  'Brien  began  to  retreat. 

"Oh,  you  bear  cat!"  shrilled  the  little  man 
ager.  "You  devasticatin' bear  cat!  Eock  him 
to  sleep!  ' At 's  the  stuff I" 

The  round  ended  with  O'Brien  on  the  run, 
striving  to  cover  himself  from  a  blinding  storm 
[180] 


OUT  OF   HIS   CLASS 


of  punishment.  The  house  was  in  a  terrific 
uproar,  but  0  'Malley  went  calmly  to  his  corner, 
not  acknowledging  his  ovation  by  so  much  as  a 
grin. 

"Watch  his  eye,  you  fool,  and  block  some  of 
them  punches ! ' '  Thus  0  'Brien  's  chief  adviser. 

"But  the  sucker — don't  hit  where — he's  look 
ing!"  grunted  Dynamite. 

The  battle  ended  early  in  the  fourth  round — 
ended  with  the  local  terror  doubled  up  on  the 
canvas  and  struggling  to  rise,  but  taking  great 
care  not  to  struggle  successfully.  Dynamite 
Danny  knew  when  he  had  had  enough,  and  in 
addition  he  was  ill  in  the  region  of  his  stomach. 

"Great  little  fighter,  that  towhead!"  said  the 
reporters.  * '  Who  dug  him  up  ? " 

"I  did,"  modestly  replied  the  sporting  editor 
of  the  "Avalanche."  "I  liked  his  looks,  and 
asked  the  club  to  give  him  a  tryout.  Shouldn  't 
wonder  if  he  amounted  to  something  some  day. 
Let  me  have  one  peek  at  'em,  and  I  can  tell,  as 
a  general  thing." 

The  sporting  editor  of  the  "Avalanche"  has 
told  this  story  so  often  that  he  now  believes  it 
himself. 


n 

Cranking  the  film  rapidly,  we  next  see  Joseph 
O'Malley  adorned  with  purple,  fine  linen,  and 
precious  stones.  But  for  the  magnificent  cauli 
flower  ear  we  might  have  some  difficulty  in  rec 
ognizing  him  as  the  same  person,  and  if  we 
watch  him  long  enough  we  shall  surprise  a  look 
[181] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


of  blank  amazement  in  that  wandering  left  eye, 
for  there  are  times  when  O'Malley  has  trouble 
in  recognizing  himself  and  is  dazed  by  his  sud 
den  elevation  to  affluence. 

We  see  also  the  little  manager,  grubby  no 
longer  but  otherwise  unchanged,  full  of  conver 
sation  and  supporting  a  diamond  stud  more 
noticeable  for  its  size  than  the  limpid,  water- 
white  purity  of  its  color. 

Our  two  friends  have  come  up  in  the  world, 
and  Joe  0  'Malley  is  a  Celebrity  now.  His  man 
ager  has  to  remind  him  of  the  fact  several  times 
a  day.  Having  disposed  of  all  competition,  Joe 
stands  alone  as  challenger  for  the  lightweight 
championship,  and  while  Carsey,  the  champion, 
doubles  and  twists  and  endeavors  to  evade  the 
issue,  O'Malley  is  about  to  enjoy  a  brief  vaca 
tion  from  the  arena. 

"Ten  weeks  in  vaudeville  at  seven-fifty  a 
week — oh,  I'm  a  poor  manager,  eh!  Yeh,  rot 
ten.  I  don't  know  a  thing  about  gittin'  the 
dough  w'ile  the  gittin's  good!"  Lew  Arthur 
set  fire  to  a  perfecto,  hung  his  thumbs  in  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  beamed  upon  his 
meal  ticket.  Joe  grunted.  It  was  not  a  grunt 
of  happiness. 

"Aw,  there  you  go  again!"  exclaimed  Lew. 

"Why  not  fight  some  of  these  guys?"  whined 
0  'Malley.  « « There 's  Kelley  an '  Young  Whalen 
an' " 

' '  Dubs ! ' '  interrupted  the  manager.  * '  Bums ! 
You  couldn't  git  nothin'  for  meetin'  'em,  an* 
you'd  only  make  yourself  cheap.  They's  just 
[182] 


OUT   OF    HIS    CLASS 


one  match  we  want  now,  an'  that's  wit'  Carsey 
for  the  championship.  He  don't  want  to  meet 
us,  but  the  public  '11  make  him.  All  we  gotta  do 
is  keep  on  challengin'  an'  yellin'  murder — 
Carsey '11  have  to  fight  us  some  day.  While 
we're  waitin',  here's  this  vaudeville  engage 
ment,  an'  pretty  soft,  I  call  it.  Lemme  talk, 
will  you?  I'm  the  manager,  ain't  I?  Well! 
The  show  business  ain't  half  as  bad  as  you 
think.  You  don't  have  to  do  nothin'  when  you 
git  out  there  on  the  stage.  We  git  the  dough 
for  lettin'  the  yaps  see  you,  'at's  all.  An' 
you'll  have  a  nelegant  time — lots  of  chickens 
wit'  the  troupe." 

' '  Huh ! '  >  sneered  0  'Malley.    '  '  Chickens ! ' ' 

"Now,  don't  be  turnin'  up  that  busted  beezer 
of  yours  so  proud  an'  haughty.  You  ain't  no 
prize  beauty,  but  they  ain't  collyflower  ears 
enough  in  the  world  to  pertect  a  guy  that  drags 
down  seven-fifty  a  week — less  his  manager's 
cut.  Some  doll '11  make  a  play  for  you,  sure, 
an'  don't  you  fall  too  hard,  Joe." 

"Ah-h,quitkiddin'!" 

' '  You  think  it 's  a  kid  ?  All  right,  little  Bright 
Eyes,  stick  around  and  see!" 

There  were  two  "girl  acts"  with  the  show, 
and  some  of  the  members  of  the  Transatlantic 
Beauty  Chorus  were  frankly  interested  in 
the  seven-hundred-and-fifty-a-week  recruit  to 
vaudeville — but  not  for  long.  The  Devasticating 
Bear  Cat  appeared  twice  a  day,  as  per  contract, 
struggled  through  his  fifteen  minutes  of  bag 
[183] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


punching,  shadow  boxing,  and  sparring,  made 
his  nervous,  jerky  bows  in  response  to  the  ap 
plause,  and  hurried,  perspiring  freely,  to  his 
dressing  room.  He  made  no  friends  and 
scraped  no  acquaintances.  The  Montressors 
and  De  Veres  and  Le  Glairs  decided  that  he 
wouldn't  do,  not  with  any  amount  of  fixing. 

"A  scared  little  small-town  hick,  that's  all  he 
is!  I  smiled  at  him  this  afternoon,  like  I'd 
smile  at  anybody  on  the  same  bill,  and  what  do 
you  think?  The  poor  fish  blushed  all  over !" 

'  *  Solid  ivory,  but  they  say  he  can  fight. ' ' 

"Well,  he  ought  to  be  able  to  do  something! 
His  act  is  a  joke!" 

"And  the  billing  says  he  gets  fifteen  hundred 
a  week  for  it.  Of  course,  that's  press-agent 
bunk " 

' '  No  matter  what  it  is,  it's  too  much. '  ' 

"Mme.  Lorenze  put  up  an  awful  squawk 
about  having  to  follow  him  on  the  bill. ' ' 

"Well,  can  you  blame  her?  Imagine  trying 
to  put  a  vampire  act  across  with  a  lot  of  low 
brows  walking  out  on  you!  I  guess  you'd 
holler  too.  The  lowbrows  only  come  to  see  him, 
and  when  he 's  done  that 's  the  end  of  the  show. 
What  do  they  care  for  the  emotional  stuff?  Last 
night  poor  old  Lorenze  died  standing  up.  It 
was  terrible ! ' ' 

"She  says  she'll  cancel  her  contract  if  they 
don 't  change  her. ' ' 

The  distinguished  foreign  artiste  and  Origi 
nal  Vampire — if  one  believes  the  press  agent 
and  forgets  Delilah,  Salome,  and  Cleopatra — 
[1841 


OUT    OF    HIS    CLASS 


complained  so  bitterly  that  the  house  manager 
called  at  O'Malley's  dressing  room.    His  very 
entrance  was  apologetic. 
"Say,  Joe,  would  you  do  me  a  favor!" 
"Maybe,"  was  the  laconic  response. 
"Would  it  be  asking  too  much  of  you  to 
change  places  with  Lorenze?    A  lot  of  people 
come  to  see  you  and  leave  after  your  act  is  over 
— they  crab  her  sketch.     She's  all  worked  up 
about  it,  Joe,  and — well,  you  know  how  women 
are. ' ' 

"Sure,"  said  the  fighter. 
"And  you'll  change  with  her?" 
"Why  not?    Makes  no  difference  to  me." 
Two   minutes    later   a   middle-aged    female 
whirlwind  swept  into  O'Malley's  dressing  room 
and  all  but  fell  on  his  neck.    It  was  so  grand 

of  him,  so  generous,  so  noble,  so — so 

"Cheese,  lady,  cheese!"  stammered  the 
Devasticating  Bear  Cat.  "Where  do  you  get 
that  stuff?  I  ain't  done  nothin'  to  rave  about; 
honest,  I  ain't!" 

No,  nothing  to  rave  about,  but  it  often  hap 
pens  that  the  smallest  acts  entail  the  largest 
consequences.  It  was  because  he  surrendered 
his  place  on  the  bill  that  O'Malley's  unwavering 
right  eye  fell  upon  Miss  Vyvyan  Delorme,  born 
Sadie  Jones. 

Miss  Delorme  "supported"  Mme.  Lorenze — 

at  least  so  she  wrote  her  family  in  Kansas  City. 

She  went  on  with  a  tray  at  the  beginning  of 

the  act,  murmured  '  *  Oui,  madame, ' '  twice,  and 

[185] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


gently  faded  from  view.  But  that  was  not  all — 
heavens,  no !  While  the  Original  Vampire  was 
vamping  the  chinless  hero  out  of  house  and 
home,  Miss  Delorme  waited  in  the  wings — 
waited  until  she  saw  the  poison  vial  slip  from 
madame's  fingers.  This  was  the  sign  that  the 
star  was  dead  and  therefore  had  no  more  use 
for  the  center  of  the  stage.  It  was  also 
Vyvyan's  cue  to  rush  on,  pick  up  the  vial — and 
scream. 

That  scream  brought  the  curtain  down,  and 
also  brought  Miss  Delorme 's  salary  up  from 
twenty-five  to  forty  dollars  a  week.  There  was 
Art  in  that  grief-stricken  outcry — Art,  and  a 
shrill,  penetrating  note  which  caused  many  a 
tired  business  man  to  wake  with  a  snort  and 
a  gurgle.  And,  as  we  have  said,  there  was  fif 
teen  dollars  per  week  in  it ;  without  the  scream 
Miss  Delorme  would  have  been  cheating  them 
at  twenty-five. 

Vyvyan  was  a  plump  little  blonde  creature  of 
the  kittenish  type,  but  she  did  not  purr  when 
stroked.  She  scratched.  Those  who  saw  only 
her  blue-eyed  baby  stare  and  overlooked  her 
somewhat  bulging  forehead  would  have  been 
deceived  in  her,  for  this  little  bit  of  human  fluff 
was  ambitious  and  not  quite  a  fool.  She 
yearned  to  be  a  great  emotional  actress — a 
stage  vampire  for  preference — but  she  appre 
ciated  the  obstacles  in  her  path. 

To  begin  with,  she  realized  that  she  was  not 
of  the  ideal  and  accepted  vampire  type — tall 
and  willowy,  with  somber  eyes  and  midnight 
[186] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


hair.  The  midnight  hair  might  easily  be  man 
aged,  but  how  about  the  somber  eyes  and  the 
slender  figure!  Then  there  were  the  clinging 
gowns,  without  which  no  vampire  ever  goes 
forth  to  vamp.  Clinging  gowns,  Vyvyan  knew, 
would  make  her  look  more  than  ever  like  a  pat 
of  fresh  dairy  butter.  The  outlook  was  a  dis 
couraging  one,  but  Vyvyan  was  artist  enough  to 
keep  on  hoping  for  the  best,  and  while  she  hoped 
she  made  a  few  tentative  experiments  in  vam- 
piring  on  her  own  amateur  hook,  using  stage 
hands  as  subjects. 

The  keynote  of  the  vampire's  character,  as 
Vyvyan  saw  it,  was  power  to  attract  the  oppo 
site  sex.  Her  first  subject,  a  large,  handsome 
brute  with  an  overhanging  cornice  of  a  jaw,  had 
responded  to  treatment  so  warmly  and  with 
such  evident  enthusiasm  that  Vyvyan  had  been 
forced  to  flee  from  him.  This  was  proof  that 
she  possessed  the  power  of  attraction,  but  as 
Vyvyan  had  no  desire  to  be  kissed  against  her 
will  she  decided  to  alter  her  system  somewhat. 
Instead  of  merely  fascinating  them,  why  not  in 
fluence  men  for  good? 

Miss  Delorme's  attempts  at  benevolent  vam- 
piring  failed  because  of  the  singular  bonehead- 
edness  of  the  stage  hands  who  were  her  sub 
jects.  Stage  hands,  Vyvyan  discovered,  were 
not  possessed  of  souls. 

Vyvyan  had  never  met  any  prize  fighters. 

She  pictured  them  as   savage,  beetle-browed 

giants  on  the  Bill  Sikes  order,  with  hamlike 

hands  and  coarse  voices.    She  was,  therefore, 

[187] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


surprised  to  find  that  the  challenger  for  a 
world's  championship  was  a  slim  youth  whose 
expression  in  repose  was  one  of  apologetic 
timidity.  Joe  looked  so  meek  and  frightened 
and  utterly  out  of  place  on  a  vaudeville  bill 
that  he  seemed  the  ideal  subject  for  benevolent 
vampiring  and  soul  awakening. 

Vyvyan  studied  this  quaint  creature  through 
several  performances  and  decided  that  he  would 
not  be  likely  to  misinterpret  her  efforts  in  his 
behalf.  More  than  that,  he  seemed  lonely  and 
in  need  of  a  friend. 

Twice  daily  0  'Malley  waited  in  the  wings  for 
the  finish  of  the  vampire's  act,  and  though 
Vyvyan  stood  so  close  to  him  that  he  might  have 
touched  her,  no  words  passed  between  them — 
none  might  ever  have  passed  had  not  Miss 
Delorme  lost  patience  and  stepped  on  the 
fighter's  toes — a  clumsy  method  of  introduction 
but  better  than  nothing.  It  gave  her  a  chance 
to  apologize  very  sweetly.  "  'S  all  right, " 
mumbled  0 'Malley,  coloring  under  the  blue- 
eyed  and  childlike  scrutiny.  "  'S  all  right — 
didn't  hurt  me  none." 

' '  Oh,  but  I  can 't  imagine  what  made  me  so — • 
so  clumsy!" 

There  was  no  reply.  Evidently  Joe  could  not 
imagine  either.  During  the  long  silence  which 
followed,  Mme.  Lorenze,  on  the  stage,  writhed 
and  contemplated  the  poison. 

1  'Don't  you  think  she's  wonderful?"  whis 
pered  Vyvyan,  her  lips  almost  brushing  the 
cauliflower  ear. 

[188] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


"Teh.    A  nut,  too." 

More  silence. 

"My  cue  is  coming  in  a  minute,"  said 
Vyvyan,  desperately  trying  to  create  conversa 
tion. 

"Well,  so  long.  Knock  'em  dead  wit*  that 
yell." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  upon  this  occasion  the 
fif  teen-dollar-a-week  scream  held  a  keen  note  of 
vexation? 

The  next  day  the  little  manager  announced 
that  he  was  going  West  on  business  "for  the 
firm." 

"I'll  chase  this  rabbit  Jim  Carsey,  an*  chal 
lenge  him  in  every  town  where  he  hangs  up  his 
dicer.  If  all  the  papers  git  to  yowlin'  at  him, 
he'll  have  to  notice  us — have  to  fight  or  retire. 
Well,  good-by,  you  matinee  idol,  an'  don't  let 
none  of  these  dames  kidnap  you!" 

"A  swell  chance!"  grunted  O'Malley. 
"A-a-a  swell  chance.  Why,  they's  only  one 
real  girl  wit'  the  whole  troupe,  an'  she  don't 
work  in  no  chorus,  I'll  tell  you  that." 


in 

Speeding  the  film  once  more,  we  catch 
glimpses  of  the  little  manager  flitting  from  town 
to  town,  snapping  at  the  heels  of  the  champion, 
annoying  him  with  challenges,  bombarding  him 
with  certified  checks,  threatening,  blustering, 
bluffing. 

There  are  also  glimpses  of  a  remarkable 
[189] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


progress  in  the  benevolent  vampiring  line; 
close-ups  of  an  inquisitive,  kittenish  blonde  ex 
ploring  the  depths  of  a  young  man's  being, 
sweeping  out  the  dusty  corners  of  his  soul, 
selfishly  testing  her  power  over  him  in  a  dozen 
different  ways. 

Slowing  the  film  to  normal,  we  discover  our 
lightweight  Samson  purchasing  lobster  for  his 
Delilah  at  the  hour  of  11  p.  m.  He  is  convers 
ing  with  her  in  low,  earnest  tones,  as  follows : 
"Honest,  kid,  it  ain't  such  a  bad  game  as  all 
that.  You  don't  know  nothin'  about  it;  that's 
why  you  knock  so  hard." 

'  *  I  know  it  is  brutal  and  degrading — and  it  is 
not  worthy  of  you,  Joe. ' ' 

"Not  worthy?    Why,  say,  listen  here " 

"Itis  brutal!"  said  Miss  Delorme. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Joe,  with  a  sigh,  "maybe  it 
is — for  them  that  loses." 

"And  not  worthy  of  you,"  insisted  Vyvyan, 
pressing  her  advantage. 

"Maybe  it  ain't,"  admitted  Joe  slowly.  "I 
never  thought  about  it  that  way. ' ' 

"Don't  you  realize  that  beating  another  man 
— with  your  fists — has  its  effect  on  you?" 

"Why,  sure,  girlie."  Joe  fingered  his  cauli 
flower  ear  and  smiled  like  a  cross-eyed  angel. 
"Sure  it's  got  an  effect.  A  guy  can't  block 
'email." 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand!  I  mean  the 
moral  effect!" 

Joe  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

' '  I  don 't  git  you  at  all.  My  morals  are  pretty 
[190] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


good.     They  got  to  be.    I  never  had  a  drink 
in  my  whole  life.    I  don 't  smoke ' ' 

"  You  're  talking  about  habits,"  corrected 
Miss  Delorme,  "not  morals." 

"Well,  habits,  then,"  said  Joe;  "an*  listen, 
girlie,  you're  gettin'  to  be  a  habit  wit'  me,  an* 
one  I  don't  never  want  to  break.  I'd  like  to 
think  it  was  a  habit  that'd  stay  wit'  me  for 
keeps.  How  about  it?" 

"Surely  you're  not  referring  to  that  again?" 

"Again  an'  yet.  Why  not?  Ain't  a  feller 
got  a  right  to  ask  for  what  he  wants ?  You've 
done  a  lot  of  talkin'  about  the  fightin'  game — 
it's  bad  an'  brutal  an'  all  that,  but  suppose  I 
got  my  dough  some  other  way?  Kunnin'  a 
saloon,  for  instance?  I  got  a  dandy  chance  to 
git  in  wit'  a  sport  in  San  Francisco — a  fifty-fifty 
split  just  for  the  name  over  the  door.  What  if 
I  should  retire  from  the  ring?  Would  that 
make  any  difference?" 

Miss  Delorme  took  time  out  for  reflection. 
This  was  soul-awakening  with  a  vengeance :  this 
was  swaying  a  strong  man ;  this  was  benevolent 
vampiring,  raised  to  the  nth  power.  Being  only 
a  weak  woman,  she  sparred  for  time. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that,  Joe?  Eeally  and 
truly?" 

"You  bet  I  mean  it.  Is  it  me  or  is  it  the 
game  that  you  don't  like?"  There  was  an 
earnest  light  in  the  fighter's  eye;  the  unmis 
takable  ring  of  sincerity  in  his  voice. 

"Why — why,  I  suppose  it's  the — the  game," 
whispered  Vyvyan. 

[191] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Keno!"  cried  Joe,  and  would  have  said 
much  more  had  not  a  messenger  boy  appeared 
at  his  elbow. 

4 'Telly gram  for  d'  nex'  champ!"  said  he, 
grinning.  "Dey  tells  me  at  d'  joke  box  I  kin 
find  youse  here.  Sign,  please. ' ' 

0  'Malley  signed,  tossed  a  quarter  to  the  boy, 
and  opened  the  yellow  envelope.  He  stared  so 
long  at  the  message  that  Miss  Delorme  coughed 
resentfully.  She  could  not  know  that  her  com 
panion  had  suddenly  come  in  sight  of  the  prom 
ised  land,  and  in  his  lingering  glance  was  a 
hail  and  a  farewell.  His  lips  moved  as  he 
spelled  out  the  words.  At  last  he  placed  the 
telegram  on  the  table  and  fixed  his  right  eye 
steadily  on  Miss  Delorme.  "Say  that  again, 
will  you?" 

' '  Say  what  again  ?  * ' 

"What  you  said  just  now — that  it's  only  the( 
game  that's  wrong,  but  I'm  all  right — wit' 
you. ' ' 

"Of  course  it's  wrong." 

"Don't  sidestep.  The  game  is  wrong  if  you 
say  so — I'm  givin'  you  that  much  the  best  of 
it,  but — am  I  all  right?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

He  reached  for  her  hand  across  the  table,  hon 
est  affection  shining  in  his  right  eye,  incohe 
rent  phrases  trembling  on  his  lips — and  those 
who  would  laugh  should  remember  that  this 
fluffy  little  creature  was  the  first  good  woman 
who  had  ever  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 
Joa  0 'Malley. 

[192] 


OUT   OF   HIS    CLASS 


"Gee,  kid,  that's  great!    That's " 

"Oh,  Joe!  I've  been  looking  everywhere 
for  you!" 

It  was  Conley,  the  press  agent  of  the  theater, 
wild-eyed  and  breathless. 

"All  the  papers  have  been  ringing  up,  trying 
to  get  in  touch  with  you  on  this  Carsey  thing. 
I've  asked  the  reporters  to  meet  us  at  my  office. 
Come  on  quick!" 

"T'ell  wit'  the  reporters,"  said  Joe  calmly. 
"T'ell  wit'  the  papers.  T'ell  wit'  you.  Can't 
you  see  I'm  busy?" 

"Busy!"  gasped  the  press  agent.  "With  a 
story  like  this  in  sight?"  He  looked  appeal- 
ingly  at  Miss  Delorme,  who  came  immediately 
to  his  rescue,  seeing  also  the  chance  to  extri 
cate  herself  from  an  uncomfortable  situation. 

"You  mustn't  keep  the  reporters  waiting, 
Joe, ' '  said  she. 

The  fighter  blinked  a  few  times  before  a  com 
prehending  light  dawned  upon  him. 

"Well,  I  must  be  a  bonehead!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  pretty  near  forgot  you  was  in  the  show  busi 
ness  too!" 

"A  big  story,  Joe!"  urged  Conley.  "Get  a 
move  on  you ! ' ' 

O'Malley  rose  and  beamed  fondly  and  fool 
ishly  upon  the  lady  of  his  love. 

"I'll  give  'em  a  story!  I'll  give  'em  a  whale 
of  a  story!  You  stick  here,  an'  I'll  be  right 
back.  Don't  go  'way." 

He  disappeared  in  the  wake  of  the  press 
agent,  head  up  and  shoulders  squared,  his  atti- 
[193] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


tude  that  of  a  young  man  about  to  make  history. 
Miss  Delorme  looked  after  him,  wondering  un 
easily.  Had  she  said  anything  which  a  very 
stupid  youth  might  misunderstand?  And  if 
she  had,  what  was  the  length  and  breadth  of 
that  misunderstanding?  Men  are  such  idiots! 
After  a  time  she  picked  up  the  telegram  and 
read  it. 

Got  Carsey  "hooked  twenty  rou..ds  November  guess  I'm  a 
poor  manager  back  to-morrow. 

LEW. 

Miss  Delorme  decided  not  to  wait.  It  was  a 
very  thoughtful  and  troubled  little  vampire  who 
walked  to  her  hotel  alone  that  night. 

"Oh,  he  couldn't  have  meant  that!"  she  as 
sured  herself.  "He  only  asked  me  if  he  was 
all  right,  and  I  said  that  I  supposed  so.  How 
could  he  twist  that  into  a  promise?" 

But  when  she  recalled  the  earnest  light  in 
Joseph's  right  eye  she  trembled.  The  boy 
might  be  fool  enough  for  anything ! 

In  the  meantime  0  'Malley  was  facing  a  quick- 
firing  battery  of  sporting  writers  in  Conley's 
office. 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  the  spokesman,  "you've 
got  Carsey  hooked  up  at  last.  This  ought  to 
make  you  the  next  champion  of  the  world." 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  answered  0 'Malley,  stead 
ily  enough. 

"What?" 

"You  ain't  afraid  of  this  bird,  are  you?" 

"What  you  giving  us,  Joe?" 

"Oh,  he  thinks  he's  a  kidder!" 
[194] 


OUT   OF   HIS   CLASS 


O'Malley  listened  to  all  the  comments.  He 
blushed  painfully,  but  did  not  waver. 

" Listen,  you  guys,"  said  he  at  length.  "I 
ain't  scared  of  Carsey.  Anybody  that  says  I 
am  is  crazy.  I  know  I  kin  lick  this  four-flushin' 
champion.  He  knows  it.  Everybody  knows  it, 
but — there  won't  be  no  fight.  I'm  goin'  to  git 
married  an'  retire  from  the  ring." 

rv 

Joe  was  quite  right  about  one  thing — it  was  a 
whale  of  a  story.  It  jarred  the  sporting  world 
profoundly,  and  well  it  might — a  challenger 
and  logical  successor  to  a  championship  retir 
ing  in  the  very  shadow  of  the  goal.  The  thing 
was  unbelievable,  preposterous,  without  rime, 
reason,  or  precedent. 

The  hero  breakfasted  alone  in  his  room  at  the 
hotel,  and  as  he  toyed  with  a  porterhouse  steak 
he  glanced  over  the  morning  papers  and  blushed 
to  find  his  romance  flung  abroad  across  seven 
columns.  "Well,"  said  he  to  himself,  "they 
sure  give  her  a  mess  o'  publicity.  I  bet  she 
never  got  a  write-up  like  this  before  in  her  life. 
Wonder  why  she  didn't  wait  for  me  last  night? 
Have  to  ring  up  pretty  soon  and  find  out " 

The  door  slammed  open  and  Lew  Arthur 
bounced  into  the  room,  barking  incoherently. 
Most  of  his  language  was  of  the  sort  which  sug 
gests  itself  to  that  sort  of  man  in  times  of  stress. 

"Hello,  Lew,"  said  Joe,  pausing  with  a  bite 
[195] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


of  steak  halfway  to  his  mouth.    " What's  the 
idear  of  all  the  fireworks  ? ' ' 

1  i  Idear ! ' '  shouted  the  little  manager,  hurling 
his  suit  case  across  the  room.  "Oh,  I  s'pose 
you  don't  know!  Of  course  not!  What's  the 
idear  of  you  runnin'  out  on  this  fight  after  I  git 
Carsey  hooked?" 

' '  I  ain  't  runnin '  out, ' '  protested  Joe.  ' '  I  got 
a  right  to  retire,  ain't  I?" 

Lew  exploded  again. 

' '  Don 't  talk  like  that, ' '  warned  0  'Malley.  ' '  I 
may  have  done  somethin'  to  myself,  but  I  ain't 
done  nothin'  to  you." 

"You  ain't?  Listen,  you  cock-eyed,  lop- 
eared  quitter,  you!  You  ain't  done  nothin'  to 
me,  hey?  Who  was  it  took  you  when  you  was 
a  bum  an'  made  a  man  of  you?  Who  was  it 
went  hungry  in  Pueblo  so't  you  could  eat  an' 
keep  your  stren'th?  Who  split  his  last  dollar 
wit'  you,  many 's  the  time ?  Who  put  you  where 
you  are  now?  Who  went  out  an'  chased  Carsey 
till  he  signed  up  ?  Me,  you  white-headed,  white- 
livered  coward,  me!  An'  now,  wit'  a  cham 
pionship  in  plain  sight — a  fortune  just  waitin' 
to  be  grabbed  off — who  throws  me  down  for  a 
skirt  he  ain't  known  but  a  few  weeks?  That's 
gratitude,  that  is ! " 

"But,  Lew,  she  said " 

"Yeh,  there  it  goes!  She  said!  How  about 
me?  Don't  I  count  in  this  anywhere?" 

"Not  in  any  of  my  marryin'  arrangements, 
you  don't." 

"But,  Joe,  won't  you  listen  to  reason?" 
[196] 


OUT   OP   HIS   CLASS 


Joe  listened  to  a  rap  on  the  door  instead. 

"Who's  there?" 

1 '  Belcher  of  the  '  Evening  Star. '  I  Ve  got  im 
portant  news  for  you,  0  'Malley. ' ' 

Belcher  was  a  brisk,  dapper  young  man  with 
an  air  of  assurance. 

* '  Good  morning,  0  'Malley.  Now,  this  young 
woman,  this  Miss  Delorme — by  the  way,  there's 
no  mistake  about  the  name,  is  there?" 

"  It 's  Vy vyan  Delorme.    Well  t ' ' 

"You  say  that  she  is  going  to  marry  you?" 

1 1  Sure.  That 's  old  stuff.  You  got  in  here  to 
tell  me  some  important  news;  make  good." 

"I'll  do  that  little  thing,"  smiled  Belcher. 
"I  have  just  come  from  Miss  Delorme.  She 
tells  me  that  there  has  been  a  mistake  of  some 
kind." 

'  *  Mistake  ? ' '  repeated  0  'Malley.   ' '  Mistake  ? ' ' 

"Rather  an  unfortunate  one  for  her,"  contin 
ued  Belcher.  "She  says  that  she  never  even 
thought  of  marrying  you — says  she  wouldn't 
marry  you  if  you  were  the  last  man  in  the 
world :  says  you  ought  to  be  sued  for  coupling 
her  name  with  yours  in  any  way — and  is  that 
news  enough  for  you  ? ' ' 

It  was.  The  invincible  0 'Malley  leaned  for 
ward  over  the  breakfast  table,  gasping  as  if 
from  a  heavy  blow. 

"Hey?    What's  that?" 

"Well,"  explained  Belcher,  "she  was  hyster 
ical  and  pretty  much  shot  to  pieces  when  I  saw 
her,  but  it  seems  that  she  blames  you  for  put 
ting  the  wrong  construction  on  some  simple 
[197] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


thing  she  said  to  you  last  night.    She  insists 
there  was  never  any  talk  of  marriage.    Is  that 


1  'Yes,'*  said  O'Malley  slowly;  "yes,  that's 
true.  There  wasn't  any  talk  about  it,  but  —  I 
thought  she  knew  what  I  meant.  '  ' 

"That's  where  you  slipped  up,"  said  the  re 
porter.  "She  called  you  some  pretty  hard 
names,  but  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  not  to  pass 
'em  along." 

'  '  Go  ahead,  pal.  '  '  It  was  the  little  manager 
speaking.  "Go  ahead.  Give  him  the  other 
barrel.  It's  comin'  to  him." 

"Well,  then,  she  called  you  a  cross-eyed  little 
beast  -  " 

"That's  a  lie!"  cried  Joe.    "A  dirty  He!" 

Belcher  pointed  to  the  telephone. 

"Call  her  up!"  said  he  curtly.  "After 
you've  had  a  talk  with  her,  you  might  want  to 
^apologize  to  me." 

Joe  glared  at  the  newspaper  man,  but  found 
no  comfort  in  that,  so  he  turned  to  his  manager. 

"Eing  her  up,  kid,"  said  he,  "an*  git  it 
straight." 

0  'Malley  got  it  straight,  and  from  the  shoul 
der.  Half  a  minute  was  enough  for  him.  As 
the  receiver  slipped  from  his  fingers  he  turned 
toward  the  newspaper  man  and  tried  to  smile. 

"You  had  it  right.  I  was  wrong,  an'  —  an' 
I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said.  Is  that  enough?" 

"Plenty,"  answered  the  reporter,  "and  if 
you  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  I'm  sorry  too.    I 
had  no  idea  it  would  hit  you  so  hard." 
[198JI 


OUT   OF    HIS   CLASS 


' '  Hard ! ' '  groaned  0  'Malley.  * '  It 's  a  knock 
out!" 

Belcher  was  soon  on  his  way  to  catch  an  edi 
tion,  and  as  the  door  closed  behind  him  thd 
toughest  little  man  in  the  lightweight  division 
took  the  full  count  with  his  face  among  the 
breakfast  dishes.  Lew  Arthur,  on  the  couch, 
watched  him  shrewdly  and  chewed  a  dead 
cigar. 

''You  fell  too  hard,  Joe,"  said  he  at  last. 
"Too  damn  hard,  an'  that's  why  it  hurts  so 
much.  Everybody  gits  it  one  time  or  another. 
There  was  a  girl  in  Butte  once — but  never 
mind  that.  I  know  how  you  feel.  You  fell  too 
hard." 

The  broken  gladiator  looked  up  suddenly. 

"She  told  me  just  now  she  never  cared  a 
snap  for  me,  one  way  or  the  other.  Then  why 
was  she  foolin'  wit'  me?  She  started  it — I 
didn  't.  What  did  she  do  it  for,  Lew  ? ' ' 

The  little  manager  tossed  away  his  cigar  and 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

4 « That 's  it !  What  for  ?  Now  you  're  gittin ' 
some  sense.  You're  beginnin'  to  use  your  bean, 
Joe.  This  dame — it  was  her  put  the  notion  of 
retirin'  into  your  head,  wasn't  it?" 

0 'Malley  nodded. 

"She  let  you  think  that  if  you  retired  she'd 
marry  you,  hey?  An'  you,  like  a  boob,  fell  for 
it?" 

0 'Malley  nodded  again. 

"Then,  as  soon  as  you  made  good  on  the 
retirin'  thing,  this  dame  threw  you  down  so 
[199] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


hard  that  you  bounced  ten  feet  in  the  air — that's 
right,  ain't  it?  Why,  you  poor  stiff,  don't  you 
see  it  yet?" 

"No,"  said  O'Malley,  with  a  hopeless  shake 
of  his  head.  * '  No,  not  yet. ' ' 

"An'  they  say  ivory  is  scarce!"  The  little 
manager  leaned  across  the  table  and  lowered 
his  voice  to  an  impressive  whisper;  his  stern 
gaze  caught  and  held  O'Malley 's  vacant  and 
mournful  stare.  "Listen,  Joe!  You  didn't 
think  I  was  goin'  to  let  'em  slip  one  over  on 
us,  did  you  ?  I  should  say  not !  I  been  watchin' 
out  for  just  such  a  play.  Your  little  friend, 
Miss  Delorme — I  've  got  a  line  on  her.  I  've  had 
her  looked  up,  an'  who  do  you  think  she  is, 
Joe?" 

0  'Malley  shook  his  head  stupidly,  and  Arthur 
snorted  with  disgust. 

"You're  a  bright  boy,  you  are!  I  guess  I 
got  to  come  right  out  an'  tell  you!  This  dame 
was  planted  wit'  the  troupe  to  git  you  out  of 
the  way.  She  was  planted — why,  a  blind  man 
could  see  it,  Joe !  She's  Carsey's  cousin,  that's 
who  she  is — Carsey's  cousin!  Now  do  you  be 
gin  to  git  the  angle?" 

And  after  a  time,  through  the  mists  of  wrath 
and  humiliation,  Joe  0  'Malley  began  to  get  the 
angle. 


Speeding  the  film  for  the  last  time,  we  arrive 
at  the  fifteenth  round  of  the  battle  for  the  light- 
freight  championship  of  the  world.  We  see  the 

L200] 


OUT   OF    HIS   CLASS 


level  rays  of  the  setting  sun  as  they  strike 
across  the  open-air  arena;  we  see  the  waiting 
thousands,  tense  in  their  seats,  leaning  forward 
in  their  eagerness  to  miss  nothing;  we  can  al 
most  hear  the  click  and  rattle  of  the  telegraph 
instruments  at  the  ring  side  and  the  muttered 
comment  of  the  experts. 

We  see  the  two  fighters  struggling  in  a  cor 
ner  of  the  ring.  Carsey's  back  is  against  the 
ropes.  He  is  drooping  and  weary,  intent  only 
on  protecting  his  ribs  from  further  assault,  and 
as  he  blocks  and  covers  he  watches  for  a  chance 
to  slip  out  into  the  open  where  there  is  room  to 
run.  0  'Malley  pens  the  champion  in  the  angle 
of  the  ropes,  battering  him  back  and  forth  with 
savage  lefts  and  rights.  Carsey,  the  dancing 
master  of  the  lightweight  division,  the  old  fox, 
the  ring  general,  the  champion  of  the  world,  has 
made  one  match  too  many. 

0 'Malley  shifts  and  drives  a  crushing  left 
hander  under  the  champion's  guard,  and  Car 
sey's  hands  fall  at  his  sides;  a  spasm  of  pain 
twists  his  features ;  he  bends  forward,  helpless. 
The  challenger  leans  towards  him  and  grins 
through  a  smear  of  blood;  his  lips  move;  he  is 
whispering  something  to  Carsey.  The  next  in 
stant  a  dark-brown  glove  flashes  upward  from 
0 'Malley 's  hip,  and  in  exactly  ten  seconds  by 
the  timekeeper's  watch  there  is  a  new  light 
weight  champion  of  the  world. 

Carsey  did  not  recover  consciousness  for 
twenty-five  minutes.  When  his  eyes  opened  he 
was  in  his  dressing  room.  His  chief  second 
[201] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


was  passing  a  green  bottle  underneath  his  nos 
trils.  Carsey  pushed  it  away. 

"I'm  all  right  now/'  he  said  thickly. 

1 1  Welcome  to  our  city ! ' '  said  the  chief  second, 
forcing  a  smile.  '  *  That  was  an  awful  uppercut 
he  handed  you.  It  would  have  knocked  out  a 
heavyweight.  Tough  luck,  old  boy,  tough 
luck!" 

Carsey  mumbled  unintelligibly  and  twisted 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  groaning. 

"Oh,  your  neck  ain't  broke,"  babbled  the 
chief  second  as  he  plied  the  sponge.  "It  only 
feels  like  it  was.  One  thing  I'd  like  to  know, 
Jim.  What  was  it  he  said  to  you  just  before  he 
knocked  you  out?" 

Carsey  frowned  and  his  eyes  closed. 

"He  did  say  something,  that's  right.  Let's 
see.  I  was  in  the  corner,  tryin'  to  get  out.  He 
nailed  me  with  the  shift.  I  knew  I  was  done 
for  then." 

"You  kind  of  fell  into  him,  wide  open,  and  he 
said  something  to  you,"  prompted  the  other. 

"Oh,  yes!  'Here's  one  for  your  cousin.' 
That 's  what  he  said. ' ' 

1  i  Your  cousin !    What  did  he  mean  by  that  ? ' ' 

The  former  lightweight  champion  of  the 
world  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"You  can  search  me!"  said  he.  "I  never 
had  a  cousin  in  my  life !" 


[202] 


SCRAP  IRON 


WHAT 'Sin  a  name  I" 
It  was  a  woman  who  asked  that  ques 
tion,  and  if  Romeo  had  been  more  of  a 
fighting  man  he  could  have  answered  it.    Enrico 
Mustolini  was  never  heard  of  outside  the  Eighth 
Ward,  but  as  Iron  Mush  Murphy  he  took  the 
whole  town  by  storm.    Let  us  examine  into  this 
matter  of  names. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  followers  of  three 
professions,  operating  mostly  after  dark,  often 
forsake  their  baptismal  appellations.  From 
time  immemorial  actors,  safe  blowers  and 
boxers,  moved  by  varying  impulses,  have  sought 
the  shelter  of  the  alias.  Thus  Michael  Donohoe 
becomes  * '  Richard  Montclair ' ' ;  Bill  Jones  blos 
soms,  not  too  openly,  as  "Frisco  Red" ;  and  Isi 
dore  Finkelstein  chooses  the  nom  de  guerre  of 
"Battling  Clancy." 

To  tell  the  truth  about  the  matter,  Enrico 
Mustolini  had  never  given  any  thought  to  the 
question  of  an  assumed  name.  In  the  barns  and 
back  alleys  where  most  of  his  unremunerated 
fighting  had  been  done  the  preliminaries  had 
not  included  an  introduction  of  the  principals. 
[203] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


If  it  had  been  necessary  to  address  Enrico  at 
all,  "Wop"  had  sufficed.  The  mothers  of  de 
feated  gladiators  frequently  mentioned  him  to 
the  police  as  "the  tough  one  of  them  dago 
kids." 

Beyond  argument  Enrico  Mustolini  was 
tough.  He  was  a  product  of  the  toughest  school 
in  town,  the  streets  and  alleys  of  the  Eighth 
Ward.  Giacomo  Mustolini,  head  of  the  family, 
owned  a  junk  shop  and  left  his  wife  in  charge  of 
it  while  he  scoured  the  outlying  portions  of  the 
city  for  rags,  bottles  and  sacks.  The  two  sons, 
Enrico  and  Antonio,  ran  wild  as  razorbacks 
from  the  time  they  could  walk. 

Enrico,  or  Henry,  as  he  preferred  to  call  him 
self,  was  a  swarthy  youth,  set  solidly  on  a  pair 
of  stocky  legs,  and  in  his  sturdy  body  there 
lived  again  the  soul  of  some  swashbuckling  an 
cestor.  Henry  loved  a  quarrel,  and  fought  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing.  Tony,  eighteen  months 
his  junior,  was  slender  of  build,  dreamy  of  eye, 
and  had  never  shown  any  liking  for  street 
brawls.  He  was  a  better  runner  than  fighter, 
but  when  cornered  he  gave  battle  with  the  sav 
age  fury  of  a  frightened  cat. 

If  Henry  regretted  this  softness  in  his 
brother's  character  he  said  nothing  about  it, 
Since  his  tenth  year  he  had  done  most  of  the 
fighting  for  the  Mustolini  family,  and  the  gen 
eral  average  was  nothing  to  blush  for,  even  in 
the  Eighth  Ward,  where  fighting  averages  ran 
high. 

Because  it  is  human  nature  to  admire  in 
[204] 


SCRAP   IRON 


others  the  qualities  that  we  lack,  Tony  boasted 
that  nobody  could  make  his  brother's  nose  bleed, 
and  Henry  gloried  in  Tony's  cleverness  and  the 
fact  that  he  could  '  *  read  newspapers,  and  every 
thing,  in  wop  and  American." 

Henry  was  not  even  clever  at  his  specialty. 
Head  down  and  arms  working  like  brown  pis 
tons  he  went  joyfully  into  action.  The  science 
of  attack  was  a  closed  book  to  Henry;  and  as 
for  defense,  such  a  thing  had  never  entered  into 
his  calculations.  He  offered  an  open  and  seem 
ingly  indestructible  countenance  to  his  enemies, 
and  while  they  tried  to  break  his  nose  or  close 
his  beady  eyes  he  wore  them  down  with  a  ter 
rific  rib  bombardment  which  none  but  the  ex 
tremely  fit  could  endure  for  long. 

"No  use  hittin'  that  wop  in  the  face,"  said 
the  Eighth  Ward  warriors.  ' '  Might  just  as  well 
pound  a  fire  hydrant.  What's  he  made  of,  any 
way  ? ' ' 

Such  notable  talent  for  trouble  cannot  be  con 
cealed.  Henry  Mustolini  learned,  no  matter 
how,  that  preliminary  boxers  made  a  great  deal 
of  money — sometimes  as  much  as  twenty  dollars 
a  night,  just  for  a  little  fighting — and  he  set 
about  to  prove  if  these  things  were  true. 

With  the  faithful  Tony  at  his  heels  he  haunted 
the  pavilion  where  the  weekly  boxing  matches 
took  place,  and  his  great  chance  came  when  a 
pork-and-beaner  defaulted  at  the  last  minute, 
leaving  a  gap  in  the  program. 

"Want  to  go  on,  kid?  All  right,  hop  into 
these  trunks  and  I'll  hustle  you  a  pair  of  shoes." 

[205] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Well,  what  does  he  get!"  demanded  Tony, 
even  then  showing  faint  glimmerings  of  the 
managerial  instinct. 

* '  Ten  if  he  wins,  five  if  he  loses.  Hurry  up, 
now ! ' ' 

A  few  moments  later  the  terror  of  the  Eighth 
Ward  found  himself  inside  the  ropes  and  blink 
ing  down  at  a  sea  of  curious  and  expectant 
faces. 

Henry  was  not  exactly  frightened,  but  Tony, 
who  had  followed  him  into  the  ring,  seemed  to 
be  having  a  nervous  chill. 

"Fi-five  dollars  ain't  so  m-much,"  murmured 
Tony  through  chattering  teeth ;  *  *  and  that  other 
guy  is  b-big  as  a  house." 

1  'Forget  it!"  ordered  Henry  crisply.  "I'll 
tear  the  belly  outa  him.  And  how  can  he  hurt 
me — with  them  pillows  on  his  hands  t ' ' 

At  this  juncture  a  lordly  individual  bent  over 
Henry  and  in  a  hoarse  and  highly  flavored  whis 
per  demanded  to  know  his  name.  That  was 
the  time  for  the  alias,  but  no  such  thought 
entered  Henry's  head.  He  answered  truly; 
and  Foghorn  Finnegan  was  very  much  sur 
prised. 

1 *  Henry — what  ?    Come  again  wit '  that,  kid ! ' ' 

"Mustolini — Henry  Mustolini." 

Now,  as  a  general  thing  professional  an 
nouncers  are  long  on  noise,  short  on  memory, 
and  witless  as  a  megaphone.  Foghorn  Finne 
gan  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  He  offered 
himself  a  muttered  rehearsal,  gave  up  in 
disgust,  seized  Henry  firmly  by  the  elbow, 
[206] 


SCRAP   IRON 


dragged  him  to  the  middle  of  the  ring  and  held 
up  one  hand.  When  silence  came  Foghorn 
shattered  it  with  his  heavy  roar : 

"Kid  Musty,  gen'elmen!  Kid  Musty!  One 
hunnerd  and  thirty-three  pounds ! ' ' 
1  That  night  as  the  Mustolini  brothers  walked 
home,  keeping  time  to  the  clinking  of  ten  silver 
dollars  in  Henry's  pocket,  they  spoke  of  Finne- 
gan's  error. 

I  "That  big  bum  got  your  name  wrong,"  com 
plained  Tony. 

'  *  I  don 't  care, ' '  said  the  fighting  man.  '  *  I  got 
the  dough — and  one  name  is  as  good  as  an 
other." 

In  this  Henry  was  wrong.  Kid  Musty  fought 
three  times,  but  roused  no  great  enthusiasm 
on  the  part  of  the  public.  It  was  T-Bone  Kiley, 
patron  of  the  arts  and  friend  of  all  the  pork- 
and-beaners,  who  suggested  an  alias  more  in 
keeping  with  Henry's  peculiar  gift  for  assimi 
lating  punishment. 

;  "Kid  Musty!  That's  no  name  for  a  fighter. 
What  you  want  is  something  that'll  hit  'em 
right  in  the  eye  when  they  see  it  in  the  papers ; 
something  that  tells  what  kind  of  a  bird  you 
are.  Now  you'll  never  be  clever,  but  you've 
got  'em  all  cheated  at  one  thing :  You  can  let  a 
man  wear  himself  out  hitting  you  in  the  mush. 
Must  be  made  of  iron.  .  .  .  By  golly!  I've  got 
it!  Iron  Mush!  How's  that  for  a  name?" 

"Iron  Mush  Mustolini?"  suggested  Henry, 
hopefully. 

[207] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"Naw!  Iron  Mush  Murphy!  Take  a  regu 
lar  fighting  name  while  you're  taking  one!" 

Iron!  There  seems  to  be  something  endur 
ing  in  the  very  sound  of  the  word.  Linked  with 
a  name  or  a  title,  the  effect  is  irresistible.  The 
Iron  Duke,  the  Iron  Chancellor,  Iron  Man  Mc- 
Ginnity — these  are  names  which  are  remem 
bered,  names  which  have  stood  the  test  of  time. 
T-Bone  Eiley  builded  better  than  he  knew. 

Kid  Musty  had  been  nobody ;  Iron  Mush  Mur 
phy  rapidly  became  a  local  celebrity.  The  name 
caught  and  held  public  fancy;  it  had  in  it  the 
element  of  distinctive  novelty.  More  than  all 
else  it  was  descriptive.  As  T-Bone  Kiley  said, 
it  meant  something.  Perhaps  it  should  be  ex 
plained  that,  in  the  patois  of  the  profession, 
to  mention  a  man's  mush  is  to  mention  his  face. 
Similarly,  the  nose  becomes  a  beezer,  and  the 
eye  a  lamp.  Americanisms,  yes;  but  it  was 
Dickens  who  called  a  fist  *  *  a  bunch  of  fives. ' ' 

Assuredly  the  name  Iron  Mush  meant  some 
thing,  and  Henry  added  to  that  meaning  every 
time  he  entered  the  ring.  His  opponents,  find 
ing  his  countenance  absolutely  unprotected,  ad 
dressed  themselves  to  it  with  more  of  vigor 
than  intelligence,  and  when  they  wearied  by 
reason  of  their  exertions  Henry  rocked  them  to 
sleep  with  a  tremendous  tattoo  aimed  at  thd 
point  where  the  ribs  leave  off  and  the  stomach 
takes  on.  Henry  became  a  drawing  card. 
Nobody  wanted  to  see  him  box,  but  everybody 
wanted  to  see  him  stop  uppercuts  and  swings 

[208] 


SCRAP   IRON" 


with  his  face.  On  a  jaw  of  chilled  steel  and 
features  tough  as  teak  Henry  Mustolini  built 
up  his  fortunes. 

After  his  seventh  engagement  Henry  pur 
chased  a  Turkey-red  bathrobe,  a  pair  of  apple- 
green  trunks  and  a  badger  haircut.  He  had 
taken  thought  and  decided  that  his  future  was 
to  be  one  of  violence.  When  a  pork-and-beaner 
buys  a  bathrobe  he  confesses  himself  the  victim 
of  ambition.  The  fighter  who  enters  the  ring 
wrapped  in  an  overcoat  has  never  aspired  to  a 
main  event. 

Henry  began  to  show  himself  on  the  local 
Eialto,  posing  in  front  of  cigar  stands  or  loafing 
about  the  entrances  to  pool  parlors.  He  learned 
to  talk  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and  to 
smoke  cabbage-leaf  perfectos.  If  he  had  dared 
he  would  have  carried  a  springy  bamboo  cane. 

About  this  time  Henry  was  approached  by 
several  gentlemen  of  elegant  but  precarious 
leisure  who  were  desirous  of  attaching  them 
selves  to  his  fortunes  in  a  managerial  capacity. 
They  painted  the  future  in  glowing  colors  and 
laid  great  stress  on  the  money  they  could  get 
for  Henry,  while  thinking  only  of  the  money 
Henry  could  get  for  them. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  Tony  was  a  listener. 
"And  all  you'll  have  to  do  is  fight,"  urged  the 
applicant.  "I'll  'tend  to  everything  else;  and 
if  I  don't  grab  you  more  dough 'n  you  ever  saw 
before,  you  can  call  me  a  liar.  What  do  you 


[209] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Henry  wavered,  for  he  was  tempted,  but  Tony 
saved  him. 

"He  says  nothing  doing,"  remarked  Tony. 
"Henry's  got  a  manager  already.  I'm  looking 
out  for  him. ' ' 

"The  hell  you  are!"  snarled  the  disappoint 
ed  one.  ' '  Mush  never  said  nothing  to  me  about 
it." 

"He's  just  made*  up  his  mind.  Ain't  you, 
Henry?" 

"Yeh,"  nodded  the  gladiator,  dazed  by  this 
exhibition  of  quick  thinking  on  Tony's  part. 
"Yeh,  Tony's  me  manager.  He  can  read  and 
write,  and  everything.  Yeh,  nothing  doing." 


Tony  Mustolini  had  just  turned  seventeen' 
when  he  assumed  the  responsible  position  of 
manager  and  business  dictator  foi  Iron  Mush 
Murphy,  and  never  was  fighter  more  faithfully 
served.  No  manager  ever  worked  harder  to 
thrust  his  charge  into  the  public  eye  and  keep 
him  there;  none  ever  showed  a  keener  scent 
for  an  unattached  dollar. 

It  was  Tony  who  decided  that  Henry  was 
underpaid  and  successfully  bluffed  the  promot 
ers  by  threatening  to  take  their  drawing  card 
elsewhere;  Tony  who  dictated  weights  and 
terms ;  Tony  who  haunted  the  sanctums  of  the 
sporting  editors  with  fearful  and  wonderful 
photographs  of  the  Iron  Mush  in  action ;  Tony 
who  discovered  that  the-  four-round  route  was 
[210] 


SCRAP   IEON 


a  bit  short  for  a  battler  of  Henry's  type  and 
eased  him  onward  and  upward  into  the  ten- 
round  class;  Tony  who  issued  bold  challenges 
to  champions  and  near  champions ;  Tony  who 
worked  like  a  Turk  while  Henry  decorated  the 
Bialto ;  and  it  was  Tony  who  insisted  that  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  training  must  be  done. 

"Ten  rounds  is  a  long  ways,"  said  Tony. 
"You  got  to  train  for  these- babies  now." 

"I  can  go  out  to  Doyle's,"  said  Henry. 

"Nix!"  said  his  manager.  "You'll  train  at 
home.  We  can  rig  up  some  kind  of  a  ring  out  in 
the  barn." 

"But  I  got  to  have  somebody  to  spar  with," 
objected  Henry;  "and  out  at  Doyle's  there's  al 
ways  a  gang " 

"Too  much  gang,"  interrupted  Tony  with 
firmness.  ' '  And  we  won 't  pay  no  sparring  part 
ner,  either.  I'll  box  with  you  myself." 

"You!"  ejaculated  Henry.  "Think  you  can 
kid  me?" 

"I'm  not  kidding,"  said  Tony.  "If  these 
boneheaded  boys  can  learn  to  box,  so  can  I. ' ' 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  order  to  save 
the  upkeep  of  a  sparring  partner  the  thrifty 
Tony  became  one  himself.  Being  intelligent  and 
adaptable  he  soon  mastered  the  rudiments  of 
attack  and  defense,  but  he  was  not  content  to 
remain  a  mediocre  boxer.  Tony  studied  the 
methods  of  the  cleverest  performers  of  the  day. 
From  a  featherweight  champion  he  learned 
something  of  the  use  of  the  straight  left,  which 
is  in.  itself  attack  and  defense ;  from  a  middle- 
[211] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


weight  he  got  the  knack  of  whipping  in  a  right 
uppercut;  from  an  English  lightweight  he  stud 
ied  the  defensive  value  of  elbows  and  forearms 
as  applied  to  infighting ;  and  from  the  Old  Mas 
ter  himself  he  borrowed  the  trick  of  "letting 
his  head  roll  with  the  punch." 

Naturally  an  agile  youth,  exercise  gave  Tony 
the  speed  and  spring  of  a  panther;  constant 
practice  taught  him  accuracy.  His  shoulders 
broadened,  his  chest  deepened,  he  took  on 
weight  where  weight  was  needed;  and  Henry 
Mustolini,  watching  this  miracle  develop  before 
his  eyes,  expressed  surprise  and  admiration. 

"Tony,"  said  he,  "I  nevei  would  have 
thought  it,  but  you're  getting  to  be  a  regular 
fighting  guy.  You  are,  on  the  square.  I  can  hit 
most  of  these  birds,  but  I  can't  hit  you ;  and  you. 
got  that  straight  left  up  me  nose  all  the  time. 
.  .  .  Why  don't  you  step  out  and  trim  some  of 
these  dubs!'r 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Tony.  "One 
fighter  in  the  family  is  plenty." 

Henry  argued  the  point,  citing  ring  history 
to  prove  that  one  family  had  produced  two 
champions,  but  Tony  shook  his.  head.  He  would 
box,  but  he  would  not  fight. 

"When  you  was  a  little  kid,"  said  Henry, 
"they  used  to  say  you* was  yellow,  and  I  licked 
'em  for  it.  You  could  always  put  up  a  good 
fight  when  they  got  you  in  a  corner.  What  ails 
you,  Tony?  You  ain't  scared  of  getting  hurt, 
are  you?" 

[212] 


SCRAP   IRON 


"I  don't  know  as  it's  that,  Henry,  but  I  never 
liked  to  get  my  face  messed  up." 

4 'It  would  take  a  mighty  good  man  to  mess 
your  face  up  now, ' '  admitted  Henry  with  criti 
cal  approval.  "A  mighty  good  man.  I  don't 
know  as  I  could  do  it  meself.  You  got  as  neat 
a  left  hand  as  anybody,  and  there 's  a  kick  in  it 
when  you  let  it  fly.  Your  right  cross  is  a  darb. 
.  .  .  No,  don't  laugh!  I'm  telling  you  straight. 
You  don't  need  to  be  scared  of  any  of  these  pre 
liminary  tramps.  Why  don't  you  be  game  and 
take  a  chance !  You  might  like  it  same  as  I  do. " 

*  *  You  always  did  like  it, ' '  said  Tony.  ' l  That 's 
the  difference." 

Henry  was  not  satisfied  to  let  the  question 
drop,  and  often  revived  it,  but  no  amount  of 
persuasion  could  induce  Tony  to  consider  a  real 
battle,  though  the  ramshackle  barn  behind  the 
junk  shop  witnessed  many  an  encounter  that 
might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  the  genuine 
article.  It  was  after  one  of  these  spirited  ses 
sions  with  the  gloves  that  Henry  renewed  the 
argument 

"I  don't  get  you  at  all,  Tony.  I'm  supposed 
to  be  a  dead  tough  mug,  and  hard  game,  but  you 
rip  into  me  like  a  champion  going  after  a  dub. 
You  gimme  all  the  battle  I  want,  kid,  fight  me 
all  over  the  place,  but  you  won't  even  take  on 
a  soft  one.  .  .  .  That  last  round — whew ! ' ' 

"Aw,"  grinned  Tony,  "you  just  stall  when 
you  box  with  me.  You  never  really  cut  loose." 

"You  think  not?"  demanded  Henry.  "You 
stung  me  with  that  uppercut — made  me  good 
[213] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


and  sore.  I  forgot  all  about  having  any  brother, 
see  ?  The  rest  of  the  round  I  was  after  you,  and 
I'd  'a'  hurt  you  if  I  could,  I  got  plenty  close 
enough  to  cave  in  your  slats,  but  I  never  hit 
nothing  but  elbows  and  forearms  and  gloves; 
(and  all  the  time,  wham !  wham !  I'm  getting  them 
short,  jolty  ones  in  the  belly.  .  .  .  Tony,  that's 
the  kind  of  fighting  that  licks  guys.  If  you'd 
tear  into  these  other  fellows  the  way  you  tear 
into  me  there 'd  be  nothing  to  it." 

"You  might  just  as  well  quit  talking  about 
it,"  said  the  younger  brother.  " There's  noth 
ing  doing." 

"You  won't  fight?"  asked  Henry. 

Tony  shook  his  head,  and  there  was  a  long 
silence.  The  iron-faced  gladiator  was  slow  in 
his  mental  processes,  but  reasonably  thorough. 
Ever  since  he  could  remember  he.  had  taken  vio 
lent  issue  with  those  who  had  called  Tony  a 
coward.  He  had  silenced,  those  youthful  accus 
ers,  but  he  had  never  been  able  to  silence  a  whis 
per  in  his  own  heart.  It  spoke  to  him  clearly 
in  that  uncomfortable  silence* 

"I'd  murder  anybody  else  for  saying  it, 
Tony,"  said  Henry  at  last,  "but  I  think  you've 
got  a  streak  after  all. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  trying  to  laugh  it 
off,  "you'll  admit  I'm  a  good  manager,  won't 
you?" 

"All  the  same" — and  Henry  wagged  his  head 
sorrowfully — "I  think  you're  yellow.  A  bird 
that  can  fight  and  won't  fight — why,  what  else  is 
he  but  yellow?" 

[214] 


SCRAP   IRON 


"If  there  was  anything  to  fight  for "  be 
gan  Tony. 

"There's  always  something  to  fight  for!" 
cried  Henry  in  a  sudden  rage.  "There's  the 
dough,  for  one  thing;  and  there's  showing  the 
gang  that  you've  got  the  guts !  .  .  .  But  what's 
the  use?  If  you're  born  with  a  streak  you'll 
have  it  all  your  life,  and  maybe  it  ain't  your 
fault.  I'll  never  bother  you  about  it  again, 
Tony.  I  won't  ask  you  to-  get  into  the  game  no 
more — not  as  long  as  I  live. ' ' 

It  is  worth  recording  that  he  kept  his  word. 

in 

The  Iron  Man,  as  they  finally  came  to  call  him, 
never  became  a  topnotcher — there  were  a  dozen 
clever  men  between  him  and  the  title — but  for 
four  years  he.  served  as  a  stumblingblock  in  am 
bition 's  path,  and  many  a  hopeful  lightweight. 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  first  division,  stubbed  his 
toes  and  fell.  Some  of  course  did  not  fall.  Per 
haps  the  thing  which  kept  the  Iron  Man  in  the 
second  division  was  his  lack  of  speed.  He  was 
not  fast  enough  on  his  feet  to  corner  the  ' l  danc 
ing  masters."  These  outpointed  him  and 
sparred  their  way  to  bloodless  victories,  but 
woe  to  the  wallowing  battleship  type  of  gladi 
ator  who  elected  to  stand  toe  to  toe  with  Henry 
and  exchange  body  blows ! 

"Anybody  can  jab.  him  in  the  face  and  run 
away,"  said  T-Bone  Biley,  "but  whenever  they 
[215] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


wade  in  and  mix  it  with  this  dago  their  name  is 
pants ! ' ' 

Thus,  in  his  leisurely,  flat-footed  fashion, 
Henry  came  to  the  end  of  his  fourth  profes 
sional  year,  the  possessor  of  at  least  one  great 
distinction:  He  had  fought  one  hundred  and 
forty-six  battles  and  never  once  had  he  been 
knocked  off  his  feet.  Clever  men  had  cut  him 
to  ribbons  time  after  time ;  celebrated  knockout 
artists  had  bounced  their  pet  blows  off  that 
chilled-steel  jaw ;  awkward,  shuffling  maulers  of 
his  own  type  had  battered  him  from  belt  line  to 
eyebrows — but  nobody  could  say  that  he  had 
dropped  the  Iron  Man  to  the  floor.  Some  had 
staggered  him;  some  had  dazed  him  for  a  few 
seconds,  but  no  referee  had  ever  lifted  his  hand 
to  count  over  Henry.  This  was  his  pride  and 
the  thing  that  he  never  failed  to  mention  soon 
after  being  introduced  to  a  stranger.  It  was 
Henry's  one  legitimate  claim  to  greatness,  and 
he  realized  it. 

"They  can  hit  me  as  hard  as  they  want  to," 
he  used  to  say, l  i  but  they  can 't  hurt  me.  I  guess 
I'm  some  tough  bird!'r 

Tony  capitalized  this  unique  record,  even 
going  to  the  length  of  compiling  statistics  for 
publication  in  the  newspapers.  He  continued 
to  act  as  Henry's  sparring  partner  at  home  and 
abroad — the  Mustolini  brothers  once  got  as  far 
East  as  Denver — and  built  up  quite  a  reputa 
tion  as  a  shrewd  matchmaker  and  a  careful  busi 
ness  manager.  Those  who  watched  Tony's  work 
with  the  gloves  were  impressed  with  his  skill. 
[216] 


SCRAP   IRON 


Some  predicted  a  bright  future  for  him  inside 
the  ropes. 

"Well,"  Henry  would  say,  "you  know  how  it 
is;  some  likes  the  game  and  some  don't.  Tony, 
,he's  as  game  a  kid  as  ever  lived,  don't  make  no 
mistake  about  that,  but — he  ain  't  like  me.  No ; 
we're  kinda  different;  been  that  way  ever  since 
we  was  kids.  I  was  always  the  fighting  one  of 
the  family.  They  all  had  their  cracks  at  me, 
but  nobody  ever  knocked  me  down. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  hey?  Some 
tough  baby,  me ! ' ' 

But  constant  dropping  wears  away  stone ;  the 
pitcher  that  continues  to  go  wellward  will  one 
day  meet  disaster ;  and  no  iron  man  ever  carried 
all  his  rivets  with  him  to  the  grave.  It  is  only 
a  matter  of  time. 

Out  of  the  East  came  young  Martin  O'Day, 
adventuring  on  the  gold  coast  in  search  of  a 
reputation  and  Western  money.  He  was  red 
headed,  low-browed,  dish-faced,  slant-jawed, 
flat-nosed  and  built  like  a  baby-grand  piano. 
Nothing  was  known  of  him  save  that  he  could 
make  one  hundred  and  thirty-three  pounds,  and 
was  "open  to  meet  the  world"  at  that  weight. 
He  looked  like  a  fighter,  he  claimed  to  be  a 
fighter,  and  he  demonstrated  that  he  was  a 
fighter  by  stopping  Butch  Brown  in  three  whirl 
wind  rounds.  During  those  three  rounds  he 
never  took  a  backward  step. 

The  Mustolini  brothers  were  spectators  that 
evening. 

[217] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Tony 
after  the  victor  had  left  the  ring. 

'  *  Go  git  him.  for  me, ' '  growled  Henry.  ' '  He 's 
made  to  order." 

There  was  no  trouble  about  getting  O'Day. 
His  date  book  was  full  of  blanks  and  his  pockets 
were  full  of  air.  The  match  was  made  for  ten 
rounds  and  advertised  as  an  added  attraction. 

"Another  set-up  for  Iron  Mush,"  said  the 
ring  fans.  "He  eats  these  rough  sluggers." 

Henry  received  his  customary  ovation  as  he 
climbed  slowly  into  the  ring,  covered  from  head 
to  heel  by  his  old  red  bathrobe,  now  stained  and 
worn.  The  Iron  Man  could  safely  count  on  the 
cheers  of  half  the  spectators.  The  others  usu 
ally  sat  in  silence,  hoping  against  hope  to  see 
him  whipped.  They  had  nothing  against  Henry, 
as  the.saying  goes,  but  he  had  been  entertaining 
them  for  a  long  time  and  perhaps  they  were  a 
bit  tired  of  him.  Some  people  like  variety. 

"When  the  fighters  went  to  the  middle  of  the 
ring  for  their  instructions  the  redhead  grinned 
cheerfully  at  Henry,  who  gave  him  smile  for 
smile. 

"Hello,  wop!" 

"Hello,  Irish!" 

"They  tell  me  you're  an  iron  man,"  said 
O'Day  tauntingly,  "and  got  your  start  in  a  junk 
shop.  Think  you  '11  ever  go  back  ? ' ' 

"Not  to-night,"  answered  Henry. 

"Me,"  said  O'Day — "I  got  my  start  licking 
Eyetalians. ' ' 

[218] 


SCRAP   IRON 


"Is  that  so?"  Henry  was  never  clever  at 
repartee. 

' '  Yeh,  it 's  s-s-so. ' '  0  'Day  prolonged  the  sib 
ilant  aggravatingly.  "You're  going  back  to 
that  junk  shop  when  I  'm  through  with  you,  too. 
.  .  .  What's  scrap  iron  bringing  these  days?" 

"Here!"  growled  the  referee.  "Cut  that 
out!  Save  it  till  the  bell  rings!" 

Back  in  his  corner  Henry  expressed  his  opin 
ion  of  0  'Day. 

"Fresh  mick,  ain't  he!" 

"Don't  let  him  talk  to  you,"  cautioned  Tony. 
"He's  trying  to  get  your  goat." 

*  *  Fat  chance ! ' '  sneered  Henry,  and  then  the 
gong  clanged.  Once  more  the  men  met  in  the 
middle  of  the  ring. 

"Scrap  iron!"  laughed  O'Day,  and  went  to 
work  at  his  trade,  head  down  and  both  gloves 
flying.  Henry  met  him  halfway,  for  this  was 
exactly  the  sort  of  battle  he  loved.  He  had 
small  respect  for  the  sort  of  opponent  who 
pecked  at  him  with  a  long  left  jab  and  then  ran 
away.  The  Iron  Man  planted  himself  solidly 
on  his  large  flat  feet  and  replied  to  the  hurricane 
of  short-arm  jolts  with  a  succession  of  rib-tear 
ing  punches,  some  of  which  might  have  been 
heard  in  the  top  row  of  the  gallery. 

The  redhead  did  not  yield  an  inch  under  fire, 
but  leaned  forward  valiantly  to  his  guns.  Head 
to  head,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  fist  to  rib  the  issue 
was  joined,  and  the  house  came  up  with  a  mighty 
roar  of  encouragement  and  approval.  This 
was  no  pink-tea  dancing  contest ;  this  was  a  real 
[219] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


fight — the  matching  of  punch  with  punch — 
stamina  with  stamina — the  supreme  test  of 
courage.  In  such  a  battle  there  can  be  but  one 
ending. 

Five  hundred  men  tell  their  wives  that  they 
attend  boxing  contests  solely  because  they  enjoy 
a  scientific  exposition  of  the  art  of  self-defense. 
Of  the  five  hundred,  one  man  may  be  telling  the 
truth;  he  may  enthuse  over  a  clever  bloodless 
encounter  for  points.  But  the  four  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  leap  to  their  feet  to  cheer  a 
savage  exchange  of  blows  meant  to  hurt.  After 
all,  the  fight's  the  thing! 

And  of  the  four  hundred  and  ninety-nine  paid 
admissions  there  may  be  twenty  men  sufficiently 
keen  of  eye  to  separate  the  damaging  blows 
from  the  ones  that  are  blocked  or  missed,  and 
to  analyze  the  trend  of  battle.  The  whole  story 
of  the  fight  between  the  Iron  Man  and  the  red 
head  was  plainly  written  across  the  first  three 
minutes  of  the  engagement,  but  few  were  cool 
enough  to  read  the  message. 

Henry  had  but  one  style  of  infighting,  and  in 
the  past  it  had  served  him  well.  He  preferred 
to  spread  his  elbows  rather  wide  and  rip  his 
body  punches  home  with  a  swinging  motion, 
his  gloves  traveling  in  an  arc.  The  man  who 
does  this  must  leave  his  flanks  unprotected  at 
least  part  of  the  time. 

0  'Day,  bending  slightly  from  the  waist,  held 

his  elbows  close  to  his  sides  and  shot  both  fists 

straight  forward  to  the  mark.    Henry  displayed 

more  motion  than  his  opponent,  but  half  his 

[220] 


SCEAP   IKON 


short,  clubbing  swings  were  blocked  by  elbows 
and  forearms,  while  0  'Day,  inside  the  attack, 
was  making  every  punch  tell.  Henry  was  re 
ceiving  exactly  twice  as  much  punishment  as  he 
inflicted.  The  gong  found  the  men  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  ring,  battering  away  at  each  other 
with  all  the  strength  in  their  bodies. 

"I'll  get  him!"  grunted  Henry  as  Tony  bent 
over  him  with  an  iced  towel. 

' '  I  got  him ! ' '  said  0  'Day  to  his  chief  second. 
"I'll  lick  him  at  his  own  game — infighting!" 

1 '  This  '11  never  go  ten  rounds ! ' '  chuckled  the 
gallery.  "It  can't!" 

"Don't  swing  so  wide,"  advised  Tony. 
1 1  He 's  inside  you  all  the  time.  Cover  up  more 
and  shoot  'em  straight ! ' ' 

"I'll  'inside'  him  if  he  stays  with  me  long 
enough,"  said  Henry. 

The  second  round  was  a  repetition  of  the  first. 
Toe  to  toe,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  hammer  and 
tongs  they  went  at  it  again,  to  a  sound  as  of 
carpets  being  beaten.  For  another  three  min 
utes  they  pivoted  in  midring,  and  this  time  the 
round  seemed  a  long  one  to  Henry.  The  steady 
exchange  of  one  blow  for  two  was  beginning  to 
take  effect. 

"Step  round  more!"  urged  Tony.  "Open 
him  up ! " 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Henry.  "One  of 
us  is  going  to  back  up  first,  and  then  there'll  be 
plenty  of  stepping  round ! ' ' 

A  portion  of  this  prophecy  was  fulfilled  to 
ward  the  end  of  the  fourth  rib-rending  session, 
[221] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


The  thunder  from  the  gallery  suddenly  took  on 
a  new  note.  It  could  hardly  have  grown  louder, 
but  it  jumped  to  a  highei  pitch  and  became  a 
shrill  clamor,  which  seemed  to  have  in  it  an 
expression  of  triumph  long  deferred.  Slowly 
but  surely  the  Iron  Man  was  giving  ground. 
Henry  did  not  step  away  from  his  task,  he  did 
not  stop  fighting  for  an  instant,  but  inch  by 
grudging  inch  he  was  retreating  toward  the 
ropes. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  O'Day 
knew  it,  and  put  a  few  extra  pounds  behind  the 
short  straight  jolts  that  he  was  driving  into 
Henry's  unarmored  section.  Tony  Mustolini 
knew  it  and  twisted  a  damp  towel  in  his  fingers 
as  he  crouched  outside  the  ring,  his  eyes  on  a 
level  with  the  canvas.  The  reporters  knew  it 
and  made  hasty  notes.  Everybody  knew  it  but 
Henry. 

"I'll  get  him  yet!"  he  gasped  when  he  came 
to  his  corner. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  panted  O'Day  as  he 
dropped  into  his  chair.  ' '  He 's  licked  now — and 
I  haven't  hit  him  above  the  shoulders  once! 
He 's  gone ! ' ' 

Henry  was  not  gone,  but  Henry  was  going. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  found  ari 
opponent  who  ignored  his  chilled-steel  jaw 
and  was  whipping  him  at  his  own  game.  In 
vain  Tony  begged  him  to  cover  up  and  play  for 
a  single  finishing  blow.  Henry  shook  his  head. 
He  was  in  the  condition  so  aptly  described  as 
"punch  drunk." 

[222] 


SCRAP  IKON 


"The  best  he'll  ever  get  is  a  draw,"  said  he 
three  minutes  later,  which  was  the  same  as  ad 
mitting  defeat. 

"He's  weakening  fast,"  was  0 'Day's  report, 
"but  I'll  say  this  for  him — he's  a  game  dago!" 

The  sixth  was  a  cruel  period  for  Henry,  but 
he  managed  to  weather  it  somehow.  His  gloves 
seemed  to  weigh  a  ton  apiece ;  his  shoes  seemed 
made  of  lead ;  every  swing  of  his  tired  arms  cost 
him  an  effort;  every  blow  that  found  his  bat 
tered  stomach  cost  him  excruciating  pain;  but 
he  continued  the  unequal  struggle  with  all  that 
remained  of  the  famous  Iron  Man — his  blind 
fighting  instinct  and  his  brute  courage.  He  was 
barely  able  to  gasp  when  he  rocked  back  to  his 
corner. 

"Draw — sure.    One  tough — bird!" 

"He  can't  stop  you,"  said  Tony,  and  knew 
that  he  lied. 

The  seventh  round  saw  the  end  of  the  contest 
and  the  making  of  an  interesting  bit  of  ring 
history.  Henry  fought  till  the  last  ounce  of 
strength  was  gone  and  then  he  began  to  stagger. 
QuickC  as  a  flash  O'Day  switched  the  point  of 
attack  and  whipped  a  savage  uppercut  home  to 
the  unprotected  jaw. 

Henry  reeled  against  the  ropes ;  his  legs  bent 
under  him  and  his  hands  dropped  to  his  sides. 

It  was  then  that  the  redhead  proved  himself 
a  ring  general.  Nothing  so  plainly  stamps  the 
real  class  of  a  fighting  man  as  the  manner  in 
which  he  goes  about  the  delivery  of  the  master 
stroke.  The  bungler,  dazzled  by  the  prospect 
[223] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


of  early  victory,  loses  his  head  and  rushing  in 
tries  to  beat  his  victim  to  the  floor  with  a  flurry 
of  wild  swings,  none  of  which  finds  a  vital  spot. 
The  craftsman  takes  his  time. 

O'Day  stepped  back,  measured  the  distance 
with  a  cool  and  practiced  squint,  located  the 
target,  and  stepped  in  again  swiftly.  The  blow 
that  ended  the  fight  came  all  the  way  from  his 
knee,  and  the  padded  fist  crashed  home  just  be 
low  and  in  front  of  the  left  ear.  The  Old 
Master  himself  could  not  have  done  it  better, 
though  the  chances  are  that  he  might  have  been 
a  bit  more  merciful.  The  Iron  Man  collapsed 
in  a  huddle  of  arms  and  legs,  rolled  over  on  his 
side,  quivered  a  few  times  and  was  still.  0  'Day 
took  one  look  at  his  work  and  started  for  his 
corner,  tearing  at  the  glove  lacing  with  his 
teeth.  The  referee  was  already  counting  the 
ten  seconds  that  marked  the  passing  of  cham 
pionships,  the  ending  of  dreams,  and  the  begin 
ning  of  stern  realities, 

Five  minutes  later  Henry  was  able  to  leave 
the  ring.  Those  nearest  the  aisle  leading  to 
the  dressing  room  saw  the  tears  streaming  down 
his  cheeks  and  laughed  at  him. 

"He  seems  to  take  it  to  heart,"  said  one  re 
served-seat  patron  to  another. 

"Oh,  well,  he  gets  paid  for  it,"  said  the  other. 

Hoarse  and  breathless  the  gallery  gave  Henry 
hail  and  farewell. 

"It  was  a  long  time  coming  to  him,"  said 
[224] 


the  dollar  customers,  "but  when  he  got  it  he 
got  it  good!  .  .  .  Some  fight!" 

Tony  bolted  the  door  of  the  dressing  room  be 
hind  him.  Then  kneeling  beside  the  rubbing 
table  he  put  his  arms  about  Henry's  heaving 
shoulders  and  tried  to  comfort  him. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  old  kid,"  whispered 
Tony.  "It's  tough — it's  awful  tough,  I  know, 
but  the  best  of  'em  get  it  some  day.  It's  part 
of  the  game.  I'll  make  another  match  with  this 
fellow " 

Henry  shook  his  head. 

' '  No, ' '  he  mumbled ;  "  no  more  matches.  I  'm 
through.  I  been  knocked  out ;  licked  first,  and 
then  knocked  out.  I  can't  beat  that  guy.  This 
is  my  finish — good-by,  ole  Iron  Man!" 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  begged  Tony.  "You 
didn't  train  much,  but  the  next  time " 

Once  more  the  broken  gladiator  shook  his 
head. 

"There  won't  be  no  next  time.  You  don't 
understand,  Tony.  I  been  stopped,  put  out. 
They  won't  call  me  the  Iron  Man  no  more.  It's 
me  for  the  junk  shop,  like  he  said  before  the 
fight." 

"He  said  it  after  the  fight,  too,  Henry.  It 
was  when  I  got  you  back  to  the  corner.  He 
came  over  to  shake  hands,  but  you — you  didn't 
know  it.  And  he  stood  there  and  laughed. 
'There's  your  brother!'  he  says — loud,  so  the 
newspaper  men  could  hear.  '  Put  him  in  a  sack 
and  lug  him  back  to  the  junk  shop.  Scrap  iron 
is  worth  a  few  cents  a  pound,  anyway!'  That's 
[225] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


what  lie  said,  Henry.    You  ain't  going  to  let 
him  get  away  with  stuff  like  that,  are  you?" 

'  *  How  can  I  stop  him  ? ' '  wailed  Henry.  ' l  He 
told  the  truth,  at  that.  I  feel  all  busted  up  in 
little  pieces.  Scrap  iron,  that's  what  I  am  now 
—scrap  iron!" 

IV 

Very  few  modern  gladiators  retire  to  private 
life  without  first  receiving  the  silent  hint  of 
empty  chairs  in  the  reserved-seat  section.  They 
pull  off  their  gloves  only  when  assured  that  the 
public  will  no  longer  pay  to  watch  the  last  nick 
ering  of  the  flame  of  youth. 

Henry  Mustolini  exchanged  one  distinction 
for  another ;  he  quit  the  ring  while  still  a  draw 
ing  card.  There  were  other  matches  in  pros 
pect  ;  the  first  knockout  registered  against  him 
had  revived  interest  in  his  remarkable  career; 
and  there  was  a  general  demand  for  a  second 
meeting  with  O'Day.  It  came  from  the  ring 
patrons  who  had  missed  the  first  encounter  and 
therefore  felt  themselves  defrauded. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  the  pieces  of  the  Iron 
Man. 

Tony  argued  and  expostulated,  but  could 
make  no  headway  against  the  stubbornness  that 
was  one  of  Henry's  characteristics. 

"They'll  say  you're  a  quitter." 

"Let  'em." 

"They  '11  say  you  're  afraid  of  0  'Day. ' ' 

"Well,  that's  all  right." 

Tony  thought  that  it  was  all  wrong,  but  in 
[226] 


SCRAP  IRON 


time  lie  accepted  the  situation  with  as  much 
grace  as  he  could  muster,  and  made  a  round  of 
the  newspaper  offices  bearing  the  news  that  the 
Iron  Man  had  fought  his  last  fight. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "we  always  figured 
to  quit  when  somebody  came  along  and  stopped 
us.  We  don't  have  to  fight  if  we  don't  want 
to ;  we  got  ours  and  we're  going  to  hang  onto  it. 
Our  record  is  good  enough  to  quit  on — one  hun 
dred  and  forty-seven  fights,  and  only  one  knock 
down.  Where  can  you  beat  that  1 ' ' 

In  the  meantime  the  red-headed  thunderbolt 
who  scrap-heaped  the  Iron  Man  reaped  the  re 
ward  of  the  victor  and  had  the  Rialto  all  to 
himself.  0 'Day  purchased  a  ready-made  suit 
of  an  eye-aching  plaid,  some  startling  neckwear, 
a  cheap  cameo  ring,  a  cane  with  a  handle  of 
imitation  ivory,  fashioned  to  represent  the  head 
of  an  alligator,  and  patent-leather  shoes  with 
uppers  of  mustard-colored  cloth.  After  win 
ning  two  more  battles  in  whirlwind  style  he 
took  himself  out  of  town  in  search  of  further 
conquests. 

After  0 'Day's  departure  it  was  thought  that 
Henry  would  emerge  from  his  retreat  and  adorn 
the  cigar  stands  and  pool-parlor  entrances  as 
of  yore;  but  this  was  an  error.  Literally,  as 
well  as  figuratively,  the  Iron  Man  had  gone  back 
to  the  junk  shop,  and  there  buried  himself 
among  the  bottles  and  the  sacks.  No  amount  of 
coaxing  could  make  him  show  himself  on  the 
street ;  he  would  not  even  attend  the  weekly  box 
ing  contests. 

[227] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"If  I  went."  said  he  to  Tony,  "they'd  call  me 
'Scrap  Iron.*  Yeh,  him  and  the  newspapers 
hung  that  name  on  me — hung  it  on  so  it'll  stick. 
I'll  never  get  rid  of  it.  I  guess  I'll  help  the  old 
man  wit'  the  business.  It's  all  I'm  good  for 
now." 

A  fair  amount  of  pride  is  a  blessing,  and  too 
much  of  it  is  a  curse,  but  the  man  who  suddenly 
finds  himself  stripped  of  the  last  shred  of  self- 
respect  is  indeed  to  be  pitied.  In  his  simple, 
elemental  fashion  Henry  had  taken  great  pride 
in  the  title  of  Iron  Man;  losing  it  he  felt  that 
he  had  lost  everything  that  made  life  worth 
living. 

Tony,  watching  his  brother  closely,  became 
alarmed.  He  knew  the  mental  collapse  that 
often  follows  years  of  solid  punching  about  the 
head,  and  he  tried  hard  to  rouse  Henry  from 
his  lethargy.  Tony  found  him  one  day  sitting 
among  the  empty  bottles  and  spelling  out  the 
press  notices  of  his  past. 

"You  got  to  quit  this,  Henry,"  said  he.  "It 
ain't  doing  you  any  good.  You're  letting  your 
self  get  all  out  of  shape. ' ' 

' '  What  do  I  want  to  stay  in  shape  for  ? ' '  asked 
Henry  dully. 

"So's  to  be  healthy,  for  one  thing.  Come 
out  to  the  barn  and  put  the  gloves  on  with  me. 
It'll  stir  you  up." 

Henry  protested,  but  Tony  finally  gained  his 
point,  and  from  that  time  on  the  brothers  boxed 
daily,  though  nothing  was  ever  said  about  a 
return  to  the  ring.  When  properly  stung  Henry 

[228] 


SCRAP    IKON 


would  lower  his  head  and  show  flashes  of  his  old 
form.  Pie  seldom  mentioned  O'Day  by  name, 
but  the  redhead  was  often  in  his  thoughts. 

"If  somebody  would  only  lick  that  guy," 
he  would  say,  apropos  of  nothing,  "I'd  feel 
better  about  it.  But  he's  winning  right  along. 
They're  touting  him  to  be  champion  some  day. 
It  was  in  the  paper." 

"  If  he  gets  to  be  champion, ' '  suggested  Tony, 
"so  much  the  better  for  you.  We  can  say  it 
took  a  champion  to  stop  you." 

"But  I  want  him  licked!"  cried  Henry. 
' '  Licked !  It 's  about  the  only  thing  I  do  want ! ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Tony,  "he'll  get  it  one  of  these 
days.  They  all  do." 

"And  that's  the  truth,"  said  Henry  mourn 
fully,  and  would  have  continued  the  conversa 
tion  along  those  lines,  but  Tony  wisely  changed 
the  subject. 


Six  months  later  O'Day  returned  to  town 
wearing  two  diamonds  of  the  sort  that  looks 
best  by  electric  light,  and  the  haughty  manner 
of  a  conquering  hero.  He  brought  with  him  a 
brisk,  weasel-faced  little  man  who  answered 
to  the  name  of  Spider  Foley,  and  who  lost  no 
time  in  informing  the  newspaper  men  that  he 
was  0 'Day's  manager  and  would  soon  make  the 
redhead  a  world's  champion.  He  also  stated 
that  O'Day  was  ready  to  box  any  lightweight 
at  any  time  and  under  any  conditions,  but  the 
real  truth  he  told  to  Michael  Callahan,  the  local 
promoter  of  glove  contests. 
[229] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"No,"  said  the  Spider,  "we  ain't  here  hunt 
ing  a  real  fight.  Of  course,  if  we  can  pick  np 
something  soft  that 's  different.  I  'd  let  my  boy 
go  on  and  spar  an  exhibition  or  kick  over  a  set 
up,  but  nothing  tougher  than  that.  He's  as 
good  as  matched  with  Young  Daly  now,  and  if 
we  lick  Daly  the  old  champ  will  have  to  take 
notice  of  us.  So  we  ain't  taking  chances.  If 
your  folks  here  want  to  see  O'Day,  show  ns 
money  enough,  find  something  soft  and  we'll 
talk  business.  Your  Iron  Man  is  barred." 

"Our  Iron  Man  has  quit,"  said  Callahan. 
"I'm  hearing  that  he's  gone  just  a  little  bit 
daffy." 

"O'Day  thought  he  might  want  a  return 
match,"  said  Foley,  "and  he  barred  him  be 
cause  we  don't  want  to  have  to  train  for  any 
body  until  we  take  on  Young  Daly.  .  .  .  Well, 
who  can  you  get  for  us?  And  it  better  be 
ten  rounds.  O'Day  ain't  enough  of  a  boxer  to 
show  up  well  in  less. ' ' 

Callahan  inquired  among  the  local  pork-and- 
beaners,  but  found  them  lacking  in  enthusiasm. 
The  wrecker  of  the  Iron  Man  was  greatly  re-, 
spected,  and  none  of  the  local  lightweights 
wanted  his  game.  With  one  accord  they  began 
to  make  excuses.  Soapy  Brodie  mentioned  a 
wounded  thumb  and  blamed  a  medicine  ball. 
Waterbury  Holmes  thought  the  short  end  of  the 
purse  was  too  short.  Dangerous  Doyle  needed 
a  month  in  which  to  train.  Callahan  had  nearly 
abandoned  hope,  when  a  human  sacrifice  walked 
into  his  office. 

[230] 


SCRAP    IRON 


' '  Hello,  Tony, ' '  said  the  promoter.  ' '  Haven 't 
seen  much  of  you  lately,  but  I  can  give  you  the 
answer  now.  O'Day  won't  fight  your  brother 
again." 

"I  don't  want  him  to,"  said  Tony,  "but — 
how  about  me  ? ' ' 

"You!" 

'  *  Me,  "was  the  calm  reply.  ' '  Why  not  ?  It 's 
a  set-up  you're  after,  ain't  it?  O'Day  is  the 
card,  no  matter  who  he  meets.  And  then  there 's 
a  lot  of  people  round  this  town  who  have  always 
wanted  to  see  me  in  the  ring.  I'll  give  'em  a 
run  for  their  money — while  I  last.  .  .  .  Speak 
ing  of  money,  how  much  is  the  loser's  end!" 

An  hour  later  Spider  Foley  heard  the  good 
news,  and  O'Day,  who  had  accompanied  his 
manager  to  Callahan's  office,  grinned  as  he 
listened. 

"It's  bound  to  draw  like  a  mustard  plaster," 
said  Callahan,  "because  it's  the  Iron  Man's 
brother,  and  he's  a  natural-born  set-up — never 
had  a  fight  in  his  life.  We  can  talk  it  up  in  the 
newspapers  and  make  it  look  like  a  case  of 
Italian  revenge " 

"And  there  might  be  something  in  it,  too," 
said  O'Day.  "That  manager  dago  ain't  stuck 
on  me — much.  I  saw  it  in  his  eye  the  night  I 
stopped  his  brother.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  all  I  ask  is 
that  you  have  him  searched  for  a  knife  before 
he  gets  into  the  ring!" 

"Bunk!"  exclaimed  Callahan.  "Tony  ain't 
after  revenge;  he's  after  the  short  end.  He 
[231] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


always  was  a  wolf  for  the  coin.  He  told  me  so 
himself.  Said  he  knew  I  wanted  a  set-up  and 
he  didn't  mind  taking  one  on  the  jaw  for  a  piece 
of  money.  Tony's  a  business  man." 

"Well,"  said  O'Day,  "his  brother  was  some 
fighter,  at  that. ' ' 


When  the  familiar  red  bathrobe  bobbed  down 
the  aisle  with  Tony  Mustolini  inside  it  there  was 
a  cheer  from  the  gallery.  It  came  from  those 
who  had  loyally  supported  the  Iron  Man  during 
his  long  campaign.  They  would  have  cheered 
Henry,  too,  but  he  was  not  among  the  shirt- 
sleeved  attendants. 

"If  I  should  show  up,"  he  had  explained  to 
Tony,  "they'd  'Scrap  Iron'  me  to  death.  I  got 
to  see  this  battle,  kid,  but  it  'll  be  from  'way  up 
under  the  roof.  And  I  never  was  no  good  as  a 
second  anyway.  .  .  .  Whatever  you  do,  Tony, 
don't  let  that  guy  get  at  your  belly.  He'll  tear 
you  in  two ! ' ' 

So  when  Tony's  curly  head  ducked  under  the 
ropes  the  Iron  Man  was  in  the  very  top  row  of 
the  gallery,  his  sweater  rolled  up  to  his  ears 
and  his  cap  pulled  low  over  his  eyes.  He  dared 
not  cheer  for  fear  of  inviting  recognition,  and 
he  did  not  know  how  to  pray.  He  was  very 
uncomfortable. 

When  the  time  came  for  introductions  Tony 
whispered  something  in  Pinnegan's  ear,  and 
that  worthy  gentleman  listened  carefully  and 
[232] 


SCRAP   IRON 


did  his  best  to  look  intelligent.  Foghorn's  voice 
was  as  clear  as  ever,  and  his  ideas  as  clouded. 
He  muttered  a  rehearsal  as  he  led  Tony  to  the 
middle  of  the  ring. 

!  "Scrap  Iron  Murphy,  gen'elmen!"  he  bel 
lowed.  "Scrap  Iron  Murphy!" 

Now  0 'Day's  remark  at  the  close  of  the  bat 
tle  with  the  Iron  Man  had  been  given  wide  pub 
licity  by  the  newspapers,  and  a  roar  of  laughter 
came  from  the  packed  house.  The  redhead,  in 
his  corner,  looked  up  suddenly,  and  a  grin  split 
his  homely  countenance.  Henry,  safe  under  the 
roof,  dodged  as  if  a  blow  had  been  aimed  at 
him.  Foghorn  Finnegan  began  to  smile,  for  he 
perceived  that  he  had  said  something  clever. 

"What  did  Tony  do  that  for?"  Henry  asked 
himself.  "Is  he  trying  to  kid  me — or  what?" 

O'Day  was  wondering  along  the  same  lines, 
and  following  his  usual  custom  he  exchanged 
words  with  his  opponent  under  cover  of  listen 
ing  to  the  referee. 

*  *  Say,  wop,  where  do  you  get  that  scrap-iron 
stuff?" 

"Say,  Irish,"  countered  Tony,  "that's  ad 
vertising.  I'm  in  the  junk  business.  After  the 
fight  come  down  and  climb  on  the  scales.  I'll 
make  a  price  on  what 's  left  of  you — bum  dia 
monds  and  all.  They're  junk  if  ever  I  saw 
any. ' ' 

And  then,  without  waiting  to  hear  0 'Day's 

retort,  Tony  turned  to  his  corner.     The  referee 

grinned  as  he  signaled  the  timekeeper.     Before 

the  gong  rang  Tony  took  a  comprehensive  sur- 

[233] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


vey  of  the  gallery,  but  lie  could  not  locate  Henry. 
"Pretty  cool  for  the  first  time  out,"  said  the 
experts.  "Look  at  him  counting  the  house  1" 

Whang! 

0  'Day  left  his  corner  at  a  shuffling  trot.  He 
had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  do  much  train 
ing  for  a  set-up,  and  was  therefore  anxious  to 
win  in  a  hurry.  Infighting  was  his  specialty, 
and  he  planned  to  get  close  to  his  man  and  stay 
there.  To  his  intense  disgust  he  discovered 
that  Tony  had  no  inclination  to  play  an  oppo 
nent's  game,  but  seemed  to  prefer  long-range 
sparring. 

0  'Day  hesitated  an  instant  and  then  charged, 
but  ran  plump  into  an  extremely  workmanlike 
left  jab,  which  threw  him  off  his  balance  and 
spoiled  the  direction  of  his  opening  shot. 
0  'Day  struggled  to  close  quarters,  but  suddenly 
found  both  arms  scientifically  pinned  by  a 
clinch.  When  he  ripped  out  of  that  embrace  a 
short  right  hook  came  from  nowhere  and  rocked 
his  bullet  head  on  his  shoulders.  A  cheer 
dropped  from  the  gallery. 

"Aw,  come  on  and  fight!"  growled  O'Day. 

"Come  on  yourself!"  replied  Tony  through 
set  teeth.  "  I  'm  right  here. ' ' 

He  was  not  there  when  0  'Day  rushed  in  with 
a  full-arm  swing,  and  before  the  redhead  could 
recover  his  balance  his  nose,  mouth  and  eyes 
were  full  of  stinging  left  jabs.  0 'Day's  first 
round  was  a  succession  of  short  savage  rushes ; 
of  blows  that  were  blocked ;  of  swings  that  went 
wild;  of  baffling  clinches  and  wasted  effort. 
[234] 


SCRAP   IRON 


Tony,  bright-eyed  and  alert,  and  having  the 
twin  advantages  of  faster  footwork  and  longer 
reach,  found  much  use  for  his  straight  left  jab, 
and  when  the  round  ended  there  was  a  thin 
streak  of  crimson  on  0 'Day's  chin.  The  cheer 
ing  was  all  for  Tony.  Expecting  nothing  of  the 
Iron  Man's  brother,  the  spectators  were  agree 
ably  surprised  and  told  themselves  that  the  bat 
tle  would  be  a  good  one — as  long  as  it  lasted. 

* '  Yeh,  he 's  clever, ' '  admitted  0  'Day  to  Foley ; 
"but  one  good  poke '11  take  all  the  speed  outa 
him." 

"You  got  a  nice  lead,"  said  Tony's  chief  ad 
viser.  "Play  him  careful.  Box  him,  that's 
the  stuff!" 

For  the  next  five  rounds  Tony  boxed,  while 
the  spectators  marveled  aloud  at  the  value  of 
the  talent  that  had  been  hidden  in  managerial 
soil.  O'Day  did  everything  in  his  power  to 
make  the  elusive  Italian  stand  up  and  fight,  but 
Tony  jabbed  and  sidestepped  and  clinched  and 
jabbed  again,  and  never  once  did  he  risk  an  even 
exchange  of  solid  blows.  The  redhead's  face 
offered  mute  evidence  that  Tony's  left  hand 
had  a  sting  in  it,  and  somewhere  in  the  sixth 
round  it  occurred  to  O'Day  that  training  was 
a  very  good  thing,  though  he  blamed  the  flat 
tened  condition  of  his  nose  for  the  shortness  of 
his  breath. 

"He's  beginning  to  grunt,"  said  Tony  in 
his  corner.  "  I  '11  trade  him  a  few  next  round. ' ' 

"Don't  be  a  sucker!"  warned  his  advisers. 
"Box  him.    Take  a  decision." 
[235] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


The  seventh  opened  up  much  as  the  other 
rounds  had  done,  but  Tony  seemed  to  be  grad 
ually  increasing  the  pace.  For  more  than  two 
minutes  he  boxed  with  O'Day,  and  then  sud 
denly  stepped  close  to  his  man  and  opened  a 
vicious  short-arm  assault  on  his  stomach.  The 
first  blow  that  landed  was  a  jolty  right-hander 
with  all  Tony's  weight  behind  it,  and  it  hurt 
O'Day;  but  he  rallied  instantly  and  replied  in 
kind. 

Now  it  had  been  no  trick  to  pump  both  fists 
into  Henry's  stomach,  but  O'Day  soon  proved 
to  his  own  satisfaction  that  landing  solidly  on 
Tony's  midsection  was  quite  another  matter. 
Tony  was  not  swinging  his  blows,  but  shooting 
them  straight  as  arrows;  what  was  more,  he 
was  timing  them  accurately  and  blocking 
shrewdly  with  his  elbows.  The  redhead  was 
a  stubborn  fighter,  but  no  fool.  There  was  a 
very  serious  expression  on  his  battered  counte 
nance  as  he  went  to  his  corner  at  the  end  of  the 
round. 

The  pavilion  was  in  such  a  tremendous  up 
roar  during  the  minute's  cessation  of  hostilities 
that  a  small  riot  in  the  gallery  attracted  little 
attention — such  a  riot  as  might  be  caused  by 
the  sudden  descent  of  a  strong  man  from  the  top 
row,  via  the  heads  and  shoulders  of  the  popn- 
lace.  It  was  Henry  Mustolini,  battling  his  way 
to  the  ringside,  and  as  he  advanced  he  gave 
tongue : 

' '  Clean  him,  Tony !    Clean  him,  kid ! " 

The  redhead  cast  a  sullen  eye  over  the  excited 
[236] 


SCRAP   IRON 


audience.  It  was  his  left  eye.  The  other  was 
closed  to  a  purple  slit.  He  drew  breath  in 
short,  sobbing  gasps,  and  even  in  that  moment 
of  stress  he  found  something  unpleasant  to  say : 

"A  set-up — hey?  .  .  .  You're  a — hell  of  a — 
manager ! ' ' 

Somebody  bounced  through  the  ropes  in  the 
other  angle  of  the  ring.  It  was  the  long-lost 
Iron  Man,  and  he  hurled  himself  upon  his 
brother  and  would  have  kissed  him  but  for  the 
interference  of  the  handlers.  These  wisely  de 
cided  that  it  was  no  time  for  consanguineous 
affection.  Henry's  yell  followed  Tony  as  he 
answered  the  summons  of  the  gong: 

"Clean  him,  kid!  Clean  him,  kid!  Clean 
him  for  me ! ' ' 

O'Day,  breathing  like  a  leaky  accordion,  but 
game  as  any  wind-broken  badger,  met  Tony 
somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  ring;  and 
this  time  no  tantalizing  left  hand  plumped  into 
his  face.  For  seven  rounds  Tony  had  been 
fighting  cautiously,  assuring  himself  of  every 
possible  advantage.  He  opened  the  eighth  with 
a  reckless  two-handed  assault  on  0 'Day's  red 
and  laboring  stomach.  It  might  have  been  the 
sight  of  Henry,  wild-eyed  and  eager;  it  might 
have  been  the  knowledge  that  his  man  was 
weakening  fast ;  at  any  rate  Tony  tossed  science 
outside  the  ropes  and  offered  O'Day  the  one 
thing  he  had  been  praying  for — an  even  ex-. 
change  of  the  sort  that  had  whipped  the  Iron 
Man. 

O'Day  flinched  under  the  first  blow,  but  low- 
[237] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


ered  his  tousled  thatch,  set  his  teeth  and  called 
up  his  heaviest  guns  for  a  counter  attack.  It 
was  do  or  die  quickly  with  him  now,  and  he  knew 
it.  Had  he  gone  into  that  toe-to-toe  encounter 
fresh  and  strong,  the  outcome  would  have  been 
problematical,  but  O'Day  was  bringing  to  that 
open  market  a  very  sick  stomach  and  a  fatal 
shortness  of  breath.  There  was  nothing  wrong 
with  his  heart,  however,  and  as  he  stood  for 
ward  to  his  bitter  task  the  house  rose  with  a 
yell.  Above  the  mighty  chorus  one  voice  soared 
like  the  blast  of  a  cracked  bugle : 

1  'For  me,  kid!    Forme!" 

Tony  made  no  pretense  of  blocking  0 'Day's 
blows  or  timing  his  own;  he  simply  fought  as 
fast  as  his  fists  could  fly.  The  first  solid  thump 
that  landed  under  Tony's  heart  shook  him  to 
the  knees ;  the  second  one  did  not  hurt  so  much ; 
the  third  he  scarcely  felt.  In  point  of  blows 
delivered  it  was  nearly  an  even  thing ;  in  point 
of  punishment  inflicted  it  was  anything  but  a 
fair  exchange. 

One  man  had  trained  on  electric  lights  and 
rich  food;  the  other  had  been  through  a  long 
and  careful  preparation  for  just  such  an  en 
counter  as  this.  One  man  was  floundering  on 
his  feet ;  the  other  was  putting  the  strength  of 
his  unshaken  legs  into  his  punches,  and  lifting 
them  home  with  murderous  effect. 

At  the  end  of  a  long,  long  minute  0  'Day  be 
gan  making  futile  attempts  to  block  those  tear 
ing  short-arm  jolts.  A  little  later  he  folded 
both  arms  across  his  tortured  stomach,  bent 
[238] 


SCRAP   IRON 


forward  from  the  waist,  and  threw  up  his  bullet 
head  with  a  sudden  jerk,  butting  Tony  squarely 
upon  the  bridge  of  the  nose.  It  was  a  deliber 
ate  foul — the  last  resort  of  a  fighter  made  des 
perate  by  punishment.  It  was  the  first  time 
Tony  had  ever  been  fouled ;  pain  and  rage  made 
him  a  maniac. 

A  blind  unreasoning  instinct  told  Tony  to  con 
tinue  the  attack  on  0 'Day's  body,  and  savagely 
he  obeyed.  Head  down,  stomach  covered, 
O'Day  retreated  before  the  doubled  fury  of 
that  assault. 

It  was  no  part  of  his  plan  to  unfold  his  arms 
and  reply  to  it.  Toward  the  end  of  the  round, 
when  Tony  had  worn  himself  out,  he  would 

'  'JTony,  the  jaw !     The  jaw ! ' ' 

The  words  seemed  to  come  from  a  great  dis 
tance.  Over  and  over  and  over  again  he  heard 
them,  until  at  last  they  began  to  convey  a  mes 
sage  to  Tony's  dazed  brain.  It  was  then  that  he 
saw,  none  too  clearly,  the  trap  into  which  he 
had  fallen — the  foul  that  had  tricked  Trim  into 
losing  his  head  and  wasting  his  strength. 

He  sensed  in  the  crouching  retreating  figure 
before  him  something  more  than  defense; 
0  'Day,  badly  hurt  and  nearly  at  the  end  of  his 
string,  seemed  to  be  waiting,  waiting.  And 
then,  even  as  he  flailed  away  at  his  staggering 
foe,  Tony  felt  elbows  through  his  gloves  and 
became  aware  of  the  lowered  guard  and  the  un 
protected  downturned  face. 

"Tony,  the  jaw!"  This  time  the  message 
came  clear  as  a  bell. 

[239] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


O'Day,  head  bent  and  watching  warily  with 
his  one  good  eye,  saw  Tony's  black  shoes  shift 
suddenly  upon  the  canvas,  the  left  foot  ad 
vanced,  the  right  one  drawn  back ;  he  caught  the 
flash  of  a  wet  glove  dropped  to  a  level  with  the 
right  knee.  He  realized  what  was  coming  and 
tried  to  lift  his  tired  arms  to  protect  his  face, 
but  even  as  they  started  to  move,  something 
flicked  his  left  wrist  ever  so  lightly,  something 
traveling  swiftly  from  below — and  that  flick  of 
the  wrist  was  Martin  0 'Day's  last  definite  im 
pression  of  the  one  battle  that  he  will  never 
forget. 

The  full-arm  uppercut  that  smashed  his  jaw 
and  ended  his  career  picked  him  clear  off  the 
floor  and  then  dropped  him  miles  deep  in  .ob 
livion. 

When  0  'Day  recovered  consciousness  the  first 
thing  he  saw  was  an  extended  hand;  the  first 
thing  he  heard  was  the  even  pleasant  voice  of 
Tony  Mustolini.  He  refused  the  hand,  but 
Tony's  jocular  remarks  lingered  with  him  for 
many  a  day. 

"Don't  forget  the  number,  Irish.  Highest 
price  for  junk  of  all  kinds.  Bring  your  dia 
monds  along  and  weigh  in. ' ' 

Here  a  sneering  face  thrust  itself  over  Tony's 
shoulder. 

*  *  Going  to  be  a  champion,  hey  f ' '  taunted  the 
Iron  Man.  "Scrap  Iron,  hey?  Scrap  Iron 
yourself,  and  see  how  you  like  it ! " 

"Gittuhell  away  from  here!"  screamed 
[240] 


SCRAP   IRON 


Spider  Foley.  "Ain't  you  done  enough  to 
him!  Can't  you  see  his  jaw  is  busted  smack 
in  two?" 

Later  the  Spider  was  more  diplomatic.  Hat 
in  hand  he  sought  Tony  in  the  dressing  room. 

"Listen,"  said  Foley,  "I  am  a  man  of  few 
words,  but  them  words  I  mean.  I  thought  I  had 
a  champion  of  the  world  on  my  staff,  but  you 
licked  him — licked  him  good.  Chances  are,  the 
doc  says,  you  ruined  him  for  life.  'S  all  right. 
No  hard  feelings.  Now  I  got  no  use  for  a  loser, 
but  if  you'll  put  yourself  under  my  pers'nal 
management  I  '11  ab-so-lutely  guarantee  to  make 
you  the  lightweight  champion  of  the  world  in 
side  a  year.  Yes,  sir,  champion  of  the  world! 
What  do  you  say?" 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  Tony.  "Henry  and 
me,  we  bought  the  old  man  out  last  week.  We  're 
in  the  junk  business " 

"The  junk  business!"  cried  Foley.  "But 
you  could  be  the  champion!  You  licked 
O'Day " 

"Sure  I  did,"  said  Tony;  "but  I  licked  him 
as  a  favor  to  Henry,  here.  Didn't  I,  old  boy!" 

"Ain't  it  the  truth!"  grunted  the  Iron  Man. 
"You  did  something  else  too,  kid.  You  showed 
'em  that  all  the  Mustolini  boys  are  game  guys  1 
Come  on,  let's  go  home!" 


[241] 


THE  PEAEL  BROOCH 


MISS  KITTY  MAHONEY  saw  it  first.  It 
was  in  Sol  Solomon's  window  on  Upper 
Main  Street 

As  the  pearl  brooch  plays  an  important  part 
in  this  story,  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  describe 
it.  It  was  about  the  size  of  a  silver  half  dol 
lar,  and  of  the  circular  design  known  as  a  sun 
burst.  From  its  center  tiny  pearls  radiated  in 
graceful  curves,  said  center  being  marked  and 
accentuated  by  a  diamond  almond  as  large  as 
the  head  of  a  pin. 

When  Miss  Mahoney 's  eyes  fell  upon  this  gem 
of  the  jeweler's  art  it  was  reposing  chastely 
upon  a  square  of  black  velvet,  flanked  on  one 
side  by  a  rubber-handled  revolver  and  upon  the 
other  by  a  collection  of  ancient  coins.  Beside 
the  velvet  was  a  card,  upon  which  was  written : 
'  *  A  Genuine  Bargain ! ' ' 

"Oh,  see  that  pearl  thing!"  cried  Miss 
Mahoney.  "Don't  you  think  it's  elegant,  Mr. 
Beaver?  I  always  did  love  pearls, ' ' 

Oscar  Beaver  squinted  critically  along  his 
five-cent  cigar,  shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot 
Ifco  the  other,  and  replied  heavily : 
[242] 


THE   PEAKL  BROOCH 


1 '  Uh-huh ! "  he  said.    ' '  Sure  I ' ' 

Mr.  Beaver  was  not  a  brilliant  conversa 
tionalist.  Physically  and  mentally,  he  was  con 
structed  along  heavy,  durable  lines.  Words 
came  from  him  reluctantly  and  in  small  instal 
ments.  Just  because  a  young  man  does  not 
talk  with  the  thoughtless  abandon  of  a  parrot, 
it  does  not  necessarily  follow  that  he  cannot 
think.  Oscar  Beaver  was  thinking  deeply  and 
with  all  the  concentration  at  his  command. 
There  returned  to  his  memory  a  chance  remark 
dropped  by  Miss  Mahoney  half  an  hour  before : 

' '  My  birthday  is  next  month.    On  the  tenth. ' ' 

Even  a  very  stupid  young  man  might  have 
traced  some  subtle  connection  between  that 
statement  and  the  voluble  admiration  of  the 
pearl  brooch. 

Miss  Mahoney  noticed  his  preoccupied  air, 
and  as  they  moved  away  from  the  window  she 
said: 

"Mr.  Beaver,  I  wouldn't  wish  to  have  you 
think  for  a  minute  that  I'm  like  some  girls,  hint 
ing  around  for  a  birthday  present.  I  hope  1 
got  too  much  pride  for  that.  But  wasn't  that 
a  lovely  piece  of  jew'lry?" 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Mr.  Beaver.    "Sure  was." 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening  Mr.  Beaver 
was  more  silent  than  usual,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock,  when  Mr.  Solomon  was  closing  up  for 
the  night,  he  had  a  caller. 

' '  What  do  you  get  for  that  pearl  thing  in  the 
window?"  demanded  the  visitor  abruptly. 
[243] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Vich  pearl  thing?"  asked  the  proprie 
tor. 

"That  round  thing  with  the  diamond  in  the 
middle  of  it." 

"Oh,  dot  sunburst!"  said  Mr.  Solomon,  sud 
denly  beaming  with  enthusiasm.  "Ah,  my 
friend,  dot  is  a  real  bargain.  Genuine  pearls. 
No  imidation  stuff.  No  gold  plate.  All  good 
goods.  I  give  you  my  word." 

"Nix!"  said  Mr.  Beaver  shortly. 

Mr.  Solomon  sighed. 

*  *  To  you, ' '  said  he,  and  his  smile  would  have 
melted  ice.  * '  I  make  the  price  forty-seven  dol 
lars.  If  I  should  let  you  have  it  for  forty-six 
I  lose  money.  Wait,  my  friend,  I  show  it  to 
you.  You  know  real  pearls  when  you  see  'em, 
and " 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Mr.  Beaver  as  he  vanished 
through  the  front  door. 

"Hey!  Come  back!"  wailed  Mr.  Solomon. 
' '  Take  it  for  forty  dollars ! ' ' 

Oscar  Beaver  did  not  hear  him,  and  it  would 
have  made  no  difference  if  he  had.  Seven  dol 
lars  one  way  or  the  other  mattered  little,  and 
it  was  the  first  question  which  lingered  in  the 
young  man's  mind  as  he  swung  down  the 
street. 

Forty-seven  dollars!  So  far  as  Oscar  was 
concerned,  the  price  of  the  pearl  brooch  might 
as  well  have  been  forty-seven  hundred.  It 
would  have  made  the  possession  of  the  trinket 
no  less  remote. 

When  a  young  man  wrestles  heavy  packing 
[244] 


THE    PEA.KL,   BROOCH 


cases  at  twenty-five  cents  an  hour,  and  has  a 
mother  and  two  small  sisters  to  support — and 
does  it — there  is  very  little  left  in  the  pay  enve 
lope  for  pearl  brooches. 

Forty-seven  dollars!  And  Miss  Mahoney's 
birthday  was  on  the  tenth  of  next  month.  Os 
car  Beaver  walked  down  the  street,  turning  the 
pearl  brooch  over  and  over  in  his  mind — always 
with  the  price  tag  attached.  Plainly  the  thing 
couldn't  be  done  short  of  a  miracle,  and  Oscar 
Beaver  had  small  acquaintance  with  miracles. 
Miss  Kitty  Mahoney  was  the  nearest  thing  to 
one  which  had  ever  come  into  his  dull  life. 
Forty-seven  dollars!  Oscar  Beaver  shook  his 
head.  No,  it  couldn't  be  done. 

The  next  morning  he  had  no  appetite,  and  his 
mother  questioned  him  anxiously : 

"Don't  you  feel  well  this  morning,  son? 
You  ain't  touched  your  fried  mush." 

"Aw,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Oscar  stolidly. 

"Where  was  you  last  night?"  asked  the 
mother.  * '  Out  with  the  boys  I ' ' 

"Naw!"  said  the  son.  "I  was  just  walking 
around. ' ' 

"Maybe  you  didn't  get  enough  sleep,"  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Beaver.  "It  was  late  when  you 
got  in." 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Oscar. 

Mrs.  Beaver  looked  after  him  as  he  left  the 
house,  his  lunch  pail  in  his  hand. 

"I  hope  he  ain't  going  to  be  sick,"  she  said. 
"He's  been  acting  kind  of  funny  lately.  It 
[245] 


TAKING    THE   COUNT 


ain't  like  him  not  to  relish  his  food.  If  he 
should  get  sick  now " 

Illness  is  a  luxury  which  no  young  man  can 
afford  at  the  rate  of  twenty-five  cents  an  hour. 

If  any  one  had  told  Mrs.  Beaver  that  her  son 
was  "going  with  that  Mahoney  girl,"  she  would 
have  been  amazed  and  very  possibly  indignant. 

11  Oscar  is  a  good  boy,"  she  used  to  boast  to 
the  neighbors  whose  sons  were  not  held  up  as 
models  of  thrift  and  deportment.  "He's  as 
steady  as  an  old,  married  man.  Never  any  beer, 
never  any  gambling,  never  any  foolishness  with 
the  girls.  Every  Saturday  night  he  brings  his 
envelope  home  to  me,  sealed  up  just  the  way  he 
gets  it  at  the  window.  He  wouldn't  spend  as 
much  as  a  five-cent  piece  on  himself  without  ask 
ing  me  first.  Ever  since  the  old  man  died  he 's 
been  just  that  way,  and  he's  better  to  the  kids 
than  his  father  ever  was.  That's  the  kind  of 
a  boy  to  have ! ' ' 

The  neighbor  women  agreed  with  Mrs.  Beaver 
to  her  face,  but  shook  their  heads  behind  her 
back. 

"It  ain't  human  nature,"  Mrs.  Slattery  used 
to  remark.  "A  boy's  a  boy,  I  say,  and  you 
can't  make  an  old  man  out  of  him.  He's  bound 
to  have  his  fun  some  time,  as  sure's  you're 
born,  and  Oscar  ain't  going  to  be  a  slave  to  his 
mother  all  the  days  of  his  life.  It  ain't  human 
nature." 

But  self-denial,  if  practiced  constantly,  in 
time  becomes  a  habit  of  mind  as  well  as  of  body. 
The  reliable  Oscar,  six  years  deep  in  a  rut,  ac- 
[246] 


THE    PEARL   BROOCH 


cepted  his  lot  with  all  the  phlegmatic  patience 
of  a  beast  of  burden.  The  thing  had  to  be  done, 
and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

The  men,  at  the  wholesale  house  where  he 
worked  once  tried  to  alter  Oscar's  views.  They 
took  him  to  task  because  of  his  habit  of  disap 
pearing  on  Saturday  nights  with  his  pay  enve 
lope  unopened. 

"It's  about  time  this  guy  bought  a  drink, " 
announced  Jerry  Gavigan,  a  teamster,  and  the 
bully  of  the  stable  gang. 

"Buy  your  own  drinks,"  growled  Oscar. 

One  word  hurried  on  to  another,  each  one 
harder  than  its  predecessor.  Finally  Gavigan 
crossed  the  line  between  wind  and  war  with  an 
epithet  calculated  to  stir  the  fighting  spirit  in 
a  Turk.  Larry  Delaney,  stable  boss,  and  ex 
pert  in  such  matters,  described  the  fight  by 
rounds  in  two  short  sentences : 

"They  was  only  two  blows  struck.  Oscar 
hit  Jerry,  and  Jerry  hit  the  floor. ' ' 

Gavigan  was  taken  to  the  hospital  with  a 
broken  jaw  and  three  loose  teeth.  Oscar  went 
home  to  his  mother  with  the  seal  on  his  pay 
envelope  unbroken.  He  explained  to  her  that 
a  packing  case  fell  on  his  right  hand  and  bruised 
the  knuckles. 


After  that  affair  Oscar  had  a  certain  amount 

of  fighting  to  do.    His  swiftly  won  reputation 

carried  with  it  an  obligation  understood  by 

young  men  of  his  kind.    Just  as  every  Western 

[247] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


killer  of  note  became  a  target  for  lesser  bad 
men  in  search  of  fame,  so  did  Oscar's  men  in 
search  of  fame.  It  amounted  to  something  to 
whip  the  man  who  had  whipped  the  redoubtable 
Gavigan,  and  Oscar  met  the  aspirants  as  they 
came,  though  without  enthusiasm.  He  never 
moved  an  inch  out  of  his  way  to  find  trouble,  but 
he  never  retreated  an  inch  when  trouble  came 
to  find  him.  Patient,  slow  to  anger,  and  of  very 
few  words,  he  would  wait  until  it  became  certain 
that  the  only  way  out  led  through  battle.  Then 
he  would  lower  his  head  and  charge  like  a  bull, 
his  right  fist  cocked  and  primed  at  his  side. 
He  seldom  had  to  hit  a  man  more  than  once. 

Oscar  knew  nothing  of  scientific  boxing,  and 
cared  less.  When  he  fought  his  only  idea  was 
to  have  it  over  as  soon  as  possible,  and  the  ele 
ment  of  personal  dislike  never  entered  into  his 
conflicts.  After  some  time  he  came  to  feel  a 
grim  satisfaction  in  his  prowess,  for  fighting 
was  almost  his  only  recreation.  His  fame 
spread  over  the  East  Side  and  reached  San  Fer 
nando  Street  and  the  haunts  of  the  railroad 
men. 

It  was  Miss  Kitty  Mahoney  who  gave  Oscar 
the  first  hint  of  his  growing  reputation.  It  hap 
pened  at  the  Switchmen's  ball,  where  he  met  the 
young  woman. 

"You  ain't  the  Mr.  Beaver  that's  such  an 
awful  fighter,  are  you?"  demanded  Miss 
Mahoney,  with  an  arch  smile. 

Oscar's  face  turned  the  color  of  Flemish 
sunset. 

[248] 


THE    PEARL  BROOCH 


' '  Aw,  I  Ve  had  a  few  mix-ups,  I  guess.  Noth 
ing  much. ' ' 

"I  think  it's  simply  terrible  for  men  to  fight,'* 
cooed  the  young  woman,  one  eye  upon  Charlie 
Kitts,  who  had  brought  her  to  the  ball.  Charlie 
was  hovering  in  the  background,  glowering  at 
Oscar,  restrained  from  violence  only  because 
of  the  discretion  which  is  the  better  part  of 
valor. 

"  Aw,  I  never  go  looking  for  it,"  muttered  the 
hero  uncomfortably.  "I  never  start  nothing." 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  anybody  run  over 
you?"  suggested  Miss  Mahoney  sweetly. 

*  *  Huh-uh ! ' '  said  Oscar. 

That  evening  Charlie  Kitts  was  treated  to  a 
lesson  in  feminine  tactics.  Having  brought 
Miss  Mahoney  to  the  ball,  he  had  every  right 
to  expect  a  monopoly  of  her  company,  instead 
of  which  he  was  forced  to  stand  aside  and  watch 
that  lively  young  woman  trying  all  her  wiles 
upon  another  youth,  and  that  youth  a  "tough 
guy"  and  a  fighter. 

At  midnight  Charlie  took  a  firm  grip  on  his 
courage,  and  shouldered  his  way  to  Miss 
Mahoney 's  side.  She  was  busily  engaged  in 
conversation  with  Mr.  Beaver,  who  was  reply 
ing  in  monosyllables. 

' '  Come  on,  kid ! ' '  said  Kitts  abruptly.  '  *  Let 's 
get  outa  this." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  home  yet,"  said  Miss 
Mahoney,  pouting.  "It  ain't  late,  is  it?" 

"Late  enough,"  said  Charlie  sourly.  "You 
[249] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


know  I  got  to  go  to  work  at  five  in  the  morning. 
Come  on!" 

Miss  Mahoney  suddenly  slipped  her  hand 
through  the  crook  of  Oscar's  elbow,  and  that 
young  man's  whole  body  stiffened  with  pleasur 
able  surprise. 

"You  go  if  you  want  to,"  she  said  calmly. 
' '  I  'm  going  to  stay.  Mr.  Beaver '11  see  me  home. 
Won't  you?" 

"Sure  thing!"  said  Oscar.    "Sure  thing!" 

"Going  to  make  a  fool  of  me,  are  you?" 
snarled  Kitts.  * '  Got  a  new  guy  on  your  staff, 
eh?  Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is " 

Oscar  Beaver  stepped  forward,  but  Miss 
Mahoney  clung  to  his  arm. 

"You  boys  behave!"  she  cried  shrilly. 
"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Mr.  Kitts,  to 
be  starting  something  right  here  on  the  floor 
before  everybody?" 

"Aw,"  said  Oscar,  "he  won't  start  nothing." 
Then  to  the  outraged  Kitts:  "Beat  it!" 

Charlie  beat  it.  He  explained  afterward  that 
it  was  only  his  respect  for  the  lady  which  kept 
him  from  assaulting  Oscar  upon  the  spot. 

Thus  young  Mr.  Beaver  came  to  regard  him 
self  as  Miss  Mahoney 's  "steady  company."  It 
was  his  first  experience  of  the  sort,  and  there 
fore  very  serious. 

Kitty  Mahoney  was  not  without  expert  knowl 
edge  of  young  men  and  their  ways  with  a  maid. 
She  had  tripped  lightly  through  many  affairs; 
but  Oscar  Beaver,  so  strong,  and  yet  so  simple — 
yes,  even  bashful  to  the  point  of  timidity — wa? 

[250] 


THE   PEARL  BROOCH 


a  new  type  to  her.  The  young  men  whom  she 
had  known  were  not  overtimid.  Most  of  them 
had  attempted  to  kiss  her — too  soon — which  is 
to  say  that  they  took  advantage  of  the  very 
first  opportunity  which  presented  itself.  There 
is  in  such  matters  a  time  limit  which  should  be 
decently  observed,  and  Miss  Mahoney  had  a 
stinging  rebuke  for  those  who  failed  to  ob 
serve  it. 

"Quit  that,  freshie.  I  ain't  that  kind  of  a 
girl.  I  don't  let  a  man  kiss  me  until  I'm  ac 
quainted  with  him. ' ' 

It  seemed  to  Miss  Mahoney  a  remarkable 
thing  that  Oscar  Beaver  had  never  presumed  to 
put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  never  once  tried 
to  kiss  her.  Remarkable  and  aggravating. 
She  amused  herself  by  putting  him  through  his 
paces  after  the  fashion  of  a  performing  bear, 
and  it  pleased  her  that  the  undefeated  cham 
pion  of  the  East  Side  and  the  terror  of  San 
Fernando  Street  should  hold  her  in  such  re 
spectful  awe,  obeying  her  lightest  whim.  She 
experimented  with  him  after  a  scientific  method 
all  her  own.  The  hint  about  the  pearl  brooch 
came  under  the  head  of  an  experiment.  Miss 
Mahoney,  having  dropped  the  seed  and  called 
attention  to  it,  waited  the  outcome  with  hope 
fulness. 

"Hey,  kid,"  said  Larry  Delaney  to  Oscar, 
"want  to  make  fifty  bucks!" 

"Quit  your  kidding,"  said  Oscar,  exploring 
the  contents  of  his  lunch  pail. 

"This  is  no  kid,"  said  Larry.  "This  is  on 
[251] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


the  level.    Do  you  want  to  make  fifty  bucks?" 

"Well,"  said  Oscar,  selecting  a  corned-beef 
sandwich,  "I  guess  I  could  use  the  change! 
What's  the  idea?" 

"On  the  ninth  of  next  month,"  explained 
Larry,  "there's  going  to  be  a  big  benefit  per 
formance  at  the  Grand  Theater.  Some  fellow 
is  sick  or  dead,  or  something,  and  his  lodge  is 
giving  a  blow-out  to  get  some  coin.  Steve 
Slattery  is  going  to  be  there." 

"Slattery,  the  fighter?" 

"There  ain't  but  one  Steve  Slattery,  is  there? 
To  make  it  a  good  drawing  card,  Steve  offers 
fifty  bucks  to  any  man  who  can  last  four  rounds 
with  him. ' ' 

Oscar  looked  up,  his  mouth  open. 

"Me!"  he  said,  tapping  his  breast  with  the 
remains  of  the  sandwich.  ' '  Me  get  up  there  on 
the  stage  with  a.  regular  fighter  ?  Not  on  your 
life!" 

"Why  not?"  argued  Larry. 

"I  never  had  a  glove  on  in  my  life." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  You 
wouldn't  be  expected  to  do  anything  but  keep 
him  from  knocking  you  out.  If  you  stick  the 
four  rounds  you  get  the  dough.  That's  soft 
enough,  ain't  it?" 

"It  is — the  way  you  say  it,"  mumbled  Oscar. 

"Fifty  bucks  is  a  lot  of  money  for  one  night's 
work, ' '  said  Larry.  "  If  I  was  as  husky  as  you 
are  I  'd  take  a  chance. ' ' 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Oscar. 

When  the  one-o'clock  whistle  blew,  Oscar 
[252] 


THE    PEAKD   BROOCH 


went  to  work  with  a  germ  planted  deep  in  Ms 
mind.    Forty-seven  from  fifty  leaves  three. 

in 

That  night  he  went  walking  with  Miss 
Mahoney.  'When  a  young  man  has  no  money  in 
his  pockets  it  is  not  considered  safe  to  walk  in 
the  direction  of  the  bright  lights  and  the  ice 
cream  parlors ;  but  Oscar  allowed  Miss  Mahoney 
to  lead  him  toward  Upper  Main  Street.  She 
paused  under  the  three  golden  balls. 

"Why,  it's  still  there!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
was  afraid  somebody  might  have  come  along 
and  bought  it." 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Oscar. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  so  awful  expensive?" 

"Forty-seven  dollars."  Oscar  blurted  ont 
the  words  before  he  thought. 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Mahoney.  And  she 
squeezed  Oscar's  arm. 

Once  more  Mr.  Solomon  had  a  late  caller. 

"About  that  pearl  thing,"  said  Mr.  Beaver. 
"There  ain't  much  chance  for  you  to  sell  it 
before  the  tenth  of  next  month,  is  there?" 

Mr.  Solomon  elevated  his  shoulders  and  wig 
gled  his  fingers. 

"Make  me  a  deposit,"  he  said,  "and  I  put  it 
in  the  safe  until  you  come  after  it.  Shall  I  put 
it  away  for  you?" 

"M-m-well,"  said  Mr.  Beaver  slowly,  "don't 
put  it  away  exactly.    Just  kind  of  hold  onto  it 
for  me.     Forty-seven  bucks,  wasn't  it?" 
[253] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Mr.  Solomon  was  a  student  of  human  nature. 
Pawnbrokers  usually  are.  Through  the  shop 
window  he  had  observed  Miss  Mahoney  earlier 
in  the  evening.  He  regarded  the  pearl  brooch 
as  sold — and  for  the  top  price.  He  could  afford 
to  hold  it  at  the  figure. 

Several,  days  passed.  Once  more  Oscar 
Beaver  and  the  lady  of  his  affections  were  tak 
ing  the  evening  air,  slightly  tainted  by  the  prox 
imity  of  a  glue  factory. 

"There's  going  to  be  a.fine  show  at  the  Grand 
next  Thursday  night,"  said  Miss  Mahoney. 
"Everybody  I  know  is  going." 

"Uh-huh!"  said  Oscar. 

"Charlie  Kitts  wants  me  to  go  with  him." 
There  was  an  unmistakable  accenting  of  the  last 
word  in  the  sentence. 

"Is  that  guy  still  sticking  around! '*  asked 
Oscar. 

"I  want  to  go  the  worst  way,  but  I  don't 
want  to  go  with  him. ' ' 

Oscar  saw  that  his  hand  was  called. 

"I'd  take  you  myself,"  he  said,  "but  I  got 
a  date  for  next  Thursday." 

Miss  Mahoney  pouted. 

"If  that  ain't  the  meanest  thing!"  she  said. 

"Aw,  what  do  you  want  to  go  see  a  boxing 
match  for?"  demanded  Oscar.  "It  ain't  no 
place  for  a  lady. ' ' 

"But  all  the  girls  are  going,"  persisted  Miss 
Mahoney.  "There's  going  to  be  singing  and 
dancing  and  a  regular  vaudeville  show.  I  '11  bet 
you're  going  with  another  girl!" 

[254] 


THE    PEAKL   BROOCH 


"Quit  that  stuff!"  growled  Oscar.  'You 
know  better:" 

"You  said  you  had  a  date,"  said  Miss 
Mahoney. 

"Well,  I  have.  But  it  ain't  with  no  girl,  take 
it  from  me. ' ' 

"And  you  can't  take  me?" 

Oscar  shook  his  head. 

"Not  a  chance;  I  would  if  I  could,  but  I 
can't." 

"You  could  break  that  old  date  if  you  cared 
anything  about  me !" 

"That's  just  the  reason  I  can't  break  it." 

"Pshaw!  I  don't  believe  it!" 

"Don't,  then." 

"Would  you  be  mad  if  I  went  with  some  one 
else?" 

"Not  mad  at  you." 

"A  girl  likes  to  go  to  a  show  once  in  a  while. 
I  ain't  been  to  a  show  since  I — since  I  don't 
know  when." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  to  this  one." 

"But  why?    What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

1 '  I  can 't  tell  you  why,  but  I  wish  you  wouldn  't, 
that's  all." 

"You're  just  jealous — that's  all  the  matter 
with  you." 

"Of  Kitts?  Where  do  you  get  that  stuff! 
Forget  it!" 

"You  ain't  got  the  right  to  dictate  who  I 
shall  go  with!" 

"I  ain't  trying  to.    I'm  just  asking- you  not 
to  go  next  Thursday  night. ' ' 
[255] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


"Suppose  I  don't  go  with  Charlie  Kittsf " 

"Don't  go  with  anybody.     Stay  at  home." 

"Huh!  That  ain't  any  fun.  I  haven't  been 
a  single  place  for  weeks,  and  when  I've  got  a 
chance  to  go  somewhere  you  kick  about  it. 
Don't  you  think  that's  selfish?" 

"Maybe.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  go.  I'll 
tell  you  why  afterward. ' ' 

"Tell  me  now." 

"I  can't." 

After  a  conversation  of  this  sort,  what  more 
natural  than  that  Miss  Mahoney  should  make 
up  her  mind  that  Oscar's  unreasonable  request 
was  based  upon  a  dog-in-the-manger  policy? 
His  failure  to  make  any  explanation  fought 
heavily  against  him,  and  there  might  have  been 
an  open  rupture  had  not  Miss  Kitty  remem 
bered,  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  that  Oscar  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  price  the  pearl  brooch. 
That  meant  something.  It  is  inadvisable  to 
quarrel  with  a  "gentleman  friend"  upon  the 
eve  of  one's  birthday,  as  every  young  woman 
knows. 

Because  of  this,  Oscar  Beaver  was  allowed  to 
go  away  thinking  that  he  had  won  his  point. 
In  her  feminine  way,  Kitty  Mahoney  was  some 
thing  of  a  strategist. 

IV 

Steve  Slattery  sat  in  his  dressing  room  at  the 
Grand  Theater  while  one  of  his  satellites  laced 
his    fighting    shoes.     Through    an    open   door 
[2561 


THE    PEAKL   BKOOCH 


came  the  braying  of  vaudeville  vocalists,  the 
whang  of  an  orchestra,  and  the  rapid  clatter  of 
clog  steps.  Stage  hands  stole  glances  at  the 
star  of  the  evening,  for  Slattery  was  a  great 
man — in  the  provinces.  Once  he  had  almost 
whipped  a  champion.  Steve 's  manager  entered, 
carrying  a  pair  of  boxing  gloves. 

"How  'bout  him!"  demanded  the  fighter. 

"A  tapioca,"  said  the  manager,  whose  name 
was  Kahn.  * ;  Something  soft.  Says  he 's  never 
been  in  the  ring  before.  All  he's  got  to  wear 
is  a  bathing  suit  and  rubber-soled  shoes." 

"You  never  can  tell  about  these  four-round 
exhibitions,"  said  Steve  oracularly.  "They're 
liable  to  slip  over  a  ringer  on  you  any  time." 

"No  chance,"  said  the  manager.  "This  is 
just  one  of  those  rough  guys.  I've  picked  most 
of  the  padding  out  of  these  gloves." 

'  *  Fair  enough, ' '  said  Slattery.  ' '  Now  for  the 
bandages.  Did  you  get  that  tea  lead?" 

A  judicious  mixture  of  adhesive  tape  and  tea 
lead — tin-foil  has  also  been  used — put  on  a 
fighter's  hand  by  an  expert  amounts  to  some 
thing  very  like  brass  knuckles.  When,  in  addi 
tion  to  this,  the  padding  is  removed  from  cer 
tain  portions  of  the  glove,  a  blow  jars  heavily 
and  cuts  like  a  knife.  Slattery  was  taking  no 
chances,  even  though  the  management  guaran 
teed  the  fifty  in  case  it  should  be  required.  It 
was  his  reputation  he  was  thinking  of.  He 
grinned  as  he  watched  Kahn's  deft  fingers  at 
work. 

[257] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Hey,  don't  put  on  too  much  of  that  stuff, " 
said  he. 

"We  should  worry!"  said  the  manager. 
"What  do  you  care  what  happens  to  this  guy?" 

"I  ain't  worrying  about  him,"  said  Steve; 
"but  if  you  get  on  too  much  of  that  stuff  I  might 
break  my  hands. ' ' 

Slattery  occupied  the  star  dressing  room. 
Away  down  the  other  end  of  the  corridor,  in  a 
five-by-seven  coop,  Oscar  Beaver,  considerably 
more  than  half  naked,  and  pink  with  embarrass 
ment,  nervously  listened  to  the  advice  which 
Larry  Delaney  poured  into  his  ears: 

"Don't  get  it  in  your  head  that  you  can  hurt 
this  fellow,  and,  whatever  .you  do,  don't  mix 
with  him.  Clinch  as  much  as  you  can,  and  cover 
up  your  jaw.  Listen  to  that!" 

A  great  roar  came  from  the  male  portion  of 
the  audience. 

* '  That 's  Steve, ' '  said  Larry,  "  He 's  going  to 
punch  the  bag  and  a  few  stunts  first.  Better 
get  out  into  the  wings  now,  and,  remember, 
don't  look  at  the  crowd.  You  might  get  stage 
fright."  Oscar  moved  along  the  narrow  pas 
sageway  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  Then  for  what 
seemed  like  a  very  long  time  he  waited  between 
high  canvas  walls,  listening  to  the  quick,  drum 
ming  thud  of  a  punching  bag.  The  sound  died 
away  at  last,  and  he  heard  a  voice  announcing 
the  *  *  event  ojf  the  evening,  a  four-round  bout  be 
tween  Steve  Slattery,  the  pride  of  the  Pacific, 
coast,  and  an  unknown. ' ' 
[258] 


THE   PEAEL  BROOCH 


"Gr'wan!"  hissed  Larry  in  his  ear.  "Get 
out  there!" 

Oscar  stumbled  forward ;  a  bright  light  shone 
in  his  eyes,  and  a  wave  of  warm  air,  heavily 
laden  with  cheap  perfume,  almost  choked  him. 
He  was  on  the  stage  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life. 

A  young  woman  in  the  third  row  caught 
her  breath  sharply,  and  her  escort  chuckled 
nervously. 

"Why,  look  who's  here!*'  he  sneered.  "I 
don't  wish  your  friend  any  bad  luck,  but  he's 
got  an  awful  nerve  going  up  against  a  real 
scrapper. ' ' 

"Can't  we  get  out?"  whispered  Miss 
Mahoney.  "I  want  to  go  home."  . 

"And  have  everybody  laughing  at  you?"  said 
Mr.  Kitts.  "I  guess  not!" 

"And  to  think  I've  been  going  around  with 
him!"  murmured  the  young  woman. 

"You  oughta  be  more  careful  of  your  com 
pany,"  said  Kitts.  "Remember,  I  told 
you " 

Still  in  a  trance,  Oscar  was  shunted  down 
toward  the  footlights,  and  introduced  as  "The 
Unknown."  There  was  prolonged  cheering, 
not  unmixed  with  catcalls  and  howls.  Many 
friends  of  Oscar's  victims  were  in  the  house. 

The  excitable  Delaney,  stripped  to  undershirt 

and  trousers  as  is  the  custom  of  seconds  and 

advisers,  a  sponge  in  one  hand,  a  bucket  in  the 

other,  and  a  bath  towel  draped  over  his  shoul- 

[259] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


ders,  jerked  his  head  toward  the  small  ring. 

1  'Git  in  your  corner!"  he  said. 

Oscar  found  himself  sitting  on  a  stool,  a  rope 
chafing  the  back  of  his  neck.  Delaney  was  fum 
bling  with  the  gloves — great,  clumsy  affairs, 
with  many  layers  of  padding  over  the  knuckles. 
Across  the  way  the  same  office  was  being  per 
formed  for  a  thick,  hairy  man  who  had  an  un 
pleasant  smile. 

A  third  man  beckoned  from  the  middle  of  the 
ring,  and  Oscar  advanced,  obeying  a  vicious 
prod  from  Delaney. 

"What  are  they  doing  now?"  quavered  Miss 
Mahoney. 

"The  referee  is  tellin'  'em  about  the  rules," 
said  Kitts. 

But  this  is  what  Kahn  was  saying  to  Oscar : 

' '  Take  a  brace,~you  big  stiff !  We  ain 't  going 
to  kill  you — not  in  the  first  round,  anyway. 
And  if  you  lay  down  Steve  will  lick  you  in  the 
dressing  room.  Understand?" 

Oscar  nodded. 

Soon  afterward  a  bell  rang,  and  Oscar  went 
forward  to  meet  the  thick,  hairy  man,  who, 
instead  of  beginning  to  fight,  circled  about  him 
with  his  left  hand  advanced.  Oscar  turned,  too, 
as  if  on  a  pivot.  Suddenly,  and  without  warn 
ing,  something  hard  and  heavy  caught  him 
squarely  on  the  bridge  of  the  nose,  and  drove 
his  head  back  until  it  seemed  that  his  neck  must 
snap  under  the  strain.  For  an  instant  the  pain 
blinded  Oscar,  but  when  his  eyes  cleared  there 
was  the  hairy  man,  dancing  in  front  of  him. 
[260] 


THE    PEARL   BROOCH 


Oscar  shook  his  head  and  plunged  forward. 
Again  his  head  snapped  back  on  his  shoulders, 
and  he  felt  a  warm  flow  upon  his  lips. 

"That's  it,  Steve!"  said  the  referee.  "Cut 
him  to  pieces  with  your  left,  and  then  cross  him 
with  the  right." 

Slattery  closed  in,  and  began  shooting  his 
leaded  left  with  pitiless  accuracy.  Every  jab 
went  straight  to  the  mark,  for  Oscar  did  not 
know  enough  to  cover  or  clinch,  and  the  pro 
fessional  gave  him  no  time  to  set  himself  for 
the  only  punch  he  knew — a  right  swing.  In 
two  minutes  the  undefeated  champion  ot  the 
East  Side  was  reeling  from  one  side  of  the  ring 
to  the  other,  blind,  dizzy,  choked  with  blood,  and 
all  but  helpless. 

"It's  a  bum  show!"  grunted  Slattery  to  the 
referee.  "I'll  let  him  go  another  round." 

When  the  bell  rang  Oscar  started  for  the 
wrong  cornej,  but  Delaney  sprang  after  him 
and  towed  him  back  to  his  own  stool. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  snarled 
Larry.  "Why  don't  you  clinch?  Get  those 
gloves  up  over  your  face.  He'll  murder  you 
if  you  don't." 

Oscar  mumbled  something  through  thick  lips. 

"Can't  hit  him!"  said  Larry.  "Nobody 
thought  you  could,  but  that 's  no  reason  why  you 
should  stand  up  there  like  a  cigar-store  Indian 
and  let  him  jab  the  face  off  you!  Duck,  you 
fool!  Lay  all  over  him,  and  clinch.  It's  your 
only  chance." 

Oscar's  head  was  still  humming  when  De- 
[261] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


laney  pushed  him  into  the  middle  of  the  ring  for 
the  second  round,  but  he  remembered  enough  of 
Larry's  sermon  to  save  him  for  the  first  thirty 
seconds.  He  staggered  to  close  quarters,  and, 
holding  on  with  one  arm,  flailed  wildly  with  the 
other,  while  Steve  grinned  and  the  gallery 
roared.  Then  a  snapping  uppercut  drove  him 
backward  to  the  ropes,  and  once  more  the  pro 
fessional  went  to  work  with  his  left.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  round,  when  Oscar  was  rocking 
and  stumbling  like  a  drunken  man,  Kahn  nodded 
at  his  fighter. 

' '  That 's  enough, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Finish  him ! " 
Oscar  heard  the  words,  and  understood. 
Through  a  red  mist,  he  saw  Slattery  steady  him 
self,  his  right  hand  poised.  When  the  glove 
moved  Oscar  ducked  his  head,  guided  only  by 
the  blind  instinct  of  self-preservation.  The 
punch,  with  every  ounce  of  Slattery 's  strength 
behind  it,  caught  him  two  inches  above  the  left 
ear,  and  sent  him  reeling  across  the  ring  and 
against  the  ropes. 

Women  screamed,  and  the  gallery  shouted : 
" Knock  him  out,   Steve!    Stop  him,  Slat 
tery!" 

But  Slattery  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
ring,  his  right  hand  dangling  at  his  side,  and 
a  queer,  twisted  expression  upon  his  ugly  face. 
Obeying  a  sign  from  his  manager,  he  advanced 
and  the  men  were  locked  in  a  clinch  when  the 
bell  rang. 

"You're  all  right!"  crackled  Larry  Delaney 
[262] 


THE   PEAEL,  BROOCH 


hysterically.  *  *  He  can 't  hurt  you  with  the  right 
hand." 

" Can't  hurt  me!"  mumbled  Oscar.  "Feel 
that  lump  on  my  head!" 

There  was  a  disagreement  in  Slattery 's  cor 
ner  also. 

"I  told  you  not  to  put  so  much  of  that  stuff 
on  my  hands,"  growled  Steve.  "I  busted  my 
hand  on  that  big  stiff !  It 's  all  your  fault,  too. ' ' 

1  'You  only  think  it's  broke,"  said  Kahn. 

"I  wish  you  had  it  instead  of  me,"  said  the 
fighter.  "I've  busted  my  hands  often  enough 
to  know.  I  copped  him  right  on  the  top  of  that 
thick  head  of  his.  Wow — but  it  hurts!" 

"You  can  stop  him  with  your  left,"  urged 
Kahn.  "You  don't  need  your  right  for  a  bum 
like  this  fellow." 

"It's  easy  for  you  to  talk,"  grumbled  Slat- 
tery. 

Oscar's  stage  fright  was  wearing  away  by  de 
grees,  and  in  the  third  round  he  actually  blocked 
a  few  of  the  cutting  lefts  which  Slattery  shot  at 
his  battered  features,  and  essayed  several  giant 
swings,  which,  though  they  missed  the  mark  by 
a  foot  or  so,  made  him  friends  in  the  gallery. 
He  paid  for  his  temerity  with  a  rapidly  clos 
ing  eye  and  several  new  cuts.  At  the  end  of  the 
round  he  walked  unsteadily  to  his  corner,  and 
the  gallery  cheered  him. 

"0-o-o-h!"  shuddered  Miss  Mahoney.  "I 
can't  bear  to  look  at  him!  Isn't  it  horrible?" 

"  Slattery 's  only  fooling  with  him,"  said 
[263] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Kitts,  hopefully.  "He'll  never  let  him  last  the 
next  round.  He  can 't  afford  to. ' ' 

The  final  round  opened  like  a  whirlwind. 
Stung  by  the  taunts  of  the  gallery,  Steve  rushed 
in  like  a  preliminary  fighter,  stabbing,  ripping, 
and  uppercutting  with  his  left.  Oscar  clinched 
repeatedly,  but  once  Slattery  caught  him  under 
the  chin  in  the  break-away  and  dropped  him  to 
the  floor.  Kahn  began  to  count  rapidly : 

"One,  two,  three,  four " 

"No,  you  don't!"  said  Oscar  thickly,  stum 
bling  to  his  feet. 

"Have  I  got  to  kill  you?"  panted  Slattery. 
"Why  don't  you  be  reasonable  and  lay  down?" 

"Because  you  can't  make  me !"  said  Oscar. 

The  theater  was  in  an  uproar.  Men  rose  in 
their  seats  and  howled  advice.  Women  cov 
ered  their  faces  and  peeped  through  their  fin 
gers,  squeaking  hysterically.  Battered,  bruised, 
and  loose  at  the  knees,  Oscar  staggered  about 
the  roped  inclosure,  wide  open  to  every  attack. 
His  hands  were  at  his  sides,  for  he  was  too 
weak  and  dazed  to  lift  them.  Long  before  he 
had  ceased  to  feel  the  pain  of  the  blows  that 
had  rained  upon  his  face.  He  was  conscious 
only  of  the  impact  as  the  leaded  knuckles  drove 
home. 

"Quit,  you  fool!"  said  Kahn.  "You'll  be 
murdered!" 

A  slight  rocking  motion  of  the  head  was  the 
only  sign  that  the  boy  heard  and  understood. 

When  the  bell  rang  he  was  hanging  upon  the 
ropes,  helpless;  and  Slattery,  who  had  fought 
[264] 


THE   PEARL,  BROOCH 


himself  into  utter  exhaustion,  was  pecking  away 
at  his  face  with  weak  lefts. 

A  third  time  Mr.  Solomon  had  a  late  caller — 
a  young  man  with  two  black  eyes,  the  right  one 
tightly  closed,  and  variously  held  together  with 
sticking  plaster.  So  awful  was  the  apparition 
that  language  forsook  the  pawnbroker. 

"Got  that  pearl  thing?"  asked  the  battered 
one  through  puffed  lips. 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Solomon,  "I 
wouldn't  have  known  it  was  you.  What  hap 
pened?" 

"Had  a  fight,"  mumbled  Oscar.  "Hurry 
pp  and  gimme  that  thing.  I  want  to  go  home. ' ' 

He  produced  two  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces 
and  some  silver.  Mr.  Solomon,  exclaiming  to 
himself,  hastened  to  obey. 

On  the  night  of  the  tenth  of  the  month  Oscar 
Beaver  crossed  the  small  lawn  in  front  of  the 
Mahoney  residence.  Raw  beefsteak  and  pink 
courtplaster  had  done  something  for  him,  but 
not  enough  to  risk  the  lights  of  the  parlor. 
What  he  had  to  say  would  be  said  on  the  front 
porch — in  the  dark — and  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  clutched  a  small  plush  box. 

His  foot  was  on  the  lower  step  when  he  heard 
voices,  and  through  the  open  window  came  the 
smooth  tones  of  Mr.  Charles  Kitts : 

"Of  course  if  I'd  ha'  known  about  it  in  time, 
I  wouldn't  have  taken  you  to-the  show.  I  know 
how  you  feel  about  it. ' ' 

' '  Never  mention  his  name  to  me  again, ' '  said 
[265] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Miss  Mahoney.  ''The  idea  of  him  mixing  up 
with  prize  fighters,  and  then  having  the  nerve 
to  come  around  here !  The  idea ! ' ' 

"I'd  have  to  want  fifty  dollars  pretty  bad  to 
take  what  he  got,"  said  Mr.  Kitts.  "Did  you 
see  his  nose?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Mahoney,  with  a  laugh. 
"Didn't  he  look  too  funny  for  any  use?" 

Oscar  Beaver  removed  his  foot  from  the 
lower  step,  and  backed  slowly  away  into  the 
darkness. 

Mr.  Solomon,  protesting  violently  that  the 
thing  couldn't  be  done,  took  the  pearl  brooch 
back  at  thirty  dollars.  It  is  now  in  the  window, 
and  Miss  Mahoney  has  often  called  Mr.  Kitts' 
attention  to  its  singular  beauty.  So  far  Mr. 
Kitts  has  been  able  to  compromise  on  a  basis 
of  ice  cream  soda  and  a  trip  to  the  moving- 
picture  show. 

Oscar  Beaver  has  promised  his  mother  that 
he  will  never  fight  again,  and  the  chances  are 
that  he  will  keep  his  word. 


[266] 


THE  REVENGE  OF  KID  MORALES 


THE  records  of  the  old  Spanish  mission  at 
Santa  Barbara  prove  that  he  was  chris 
tened  Manuel  Carlos  Rodriguez,  but  it 
was  not  under  that  mouthful  of  musical  syllables 
that  he  rose  in  the  world,  the  first  Mexican  pugi 
list  of  prominence.  We  now  have  several 
swarthy  battlers — some  of  them  very  good  ones 
and  some  very  bad — but  it  was  Manuel  (pro 
nounce  that  Mon-well,  please)  who  blazed  the 
new  trail  and  demonstrated  that  a  Mexican  does 
not  always  need  a  knife  when  he  goes  to  war. 
Like  the  average  drug  clerk,  Manuel  had  some 
thing  just  as  good,  if  not  better.  His  right 
hand  carried  the  anaesthetic  when  delivered  from 
any  possible  angle — uppercut,  hook,  cross,  jab, 
or  swing.  If  all  Mexicans  were  similarly  gifted 
our  champions  would  hail  from  the  sister  re 
public,  and  Sheffield  would  be  forced  to  find  a 
new  market  for  her  cutlery. 

Manuel  Carlos  began  fighting  at  the  mature 
age  of  seven,  not  because  he  liked  it  but  because 
he  attended  a  public  school  where  the  * '  railroad 
Irish"  predominated.  "Licking  the  greasers" 
was  a  daily  diversion,  and  Manuel  furnished 
[267] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


his  share  of  the  entertainment  for  at  least  five 
years,  when  he  discovered,  quite  by  accident, 
that  he  could  strike  a  harder  blow  with  his  right 
hand  than  any  other  boy  in  the  school. 

1  *  Toughie ' '  Gallegher,  the  champion  of  Ana- 
capa  Street  and  the  beach  section,  gave  Manuel 
the  opportunity  to  make  this  important  discov 
ery.  Toughie  was  fourteen,  and  large  for  his 
age;  Manuel  was  twelve  and  correspondingly 
small,  but  this  earned  him  no  sympathy.  He 
was  the  only  ''greaser"  in  sight,  and  Toughie 
was  spoiling  for  a  fight.  Manuel  had  learned 
by  bitter  experience  that  running  away  was  use 
less  ;  it  only  postponed  the  evil  day  and  added 
to  the  punishment  when  caught,  so  he  sullenly 
took  off  his  coat  and  faced  the  inevitable. 

Toughie,  safe  in  the  knowledge  that  he  could 
end  the  fight  whenever  he  saw  fit,  prolonged 
the  agony  cruelly.  He  toyed  with  his  small  op-1 
ponent,  jabbing  him  first  in  one  eye  and  then  in 
the  other,  between  whiles  paying  attention  to  his 
nose  and  mouth.  Manuel  fought  with  the  des 
peration  of  a  cornered  tabby  cat,  but  his  frantic 
rushes  and  ineffective  swings  brought  nothing 
but  hilarious  applause  from  the  audience. 

At  last  Toughie  paused,  and  looked  upon  his 
work,  well  satisfied  with  himself.  Manuel's  eyes 
were  puffed,  his  nose  was  trickling  gore,  and  his 
lips  were  split. 

"You're  a  game  little  greaser,  anyway,"  said 
Toughie  magnanimously.    '  *  Here,  see  if  you  can 
hit  me  once."    He  dropped  his  hands  at  his 
[268] 


THE   REVENGE   OF   KID   MORALES 


sides,  thrust  out  his  chin,  and  braced  himself, 
legs  wide  apart. 

Manuel  doubled  up  his  right  fist  into  a  ball, 
and  hurled  himself  forward,  striking  with  every 
ounce  of  strength  in  his  lean  little  body.  Toughie 
saw  the  blow  coming,  and  drew  back  his  head, 
just  far  enough  to  bring  the  point  of  his  chin 
into  violent  contact  with  the  brown  fist.  He  had 
intended  to  make  Manuel  miss,  and  kick  him 
on  the  shins  before  he  could  recover  his  balance, 
but  the  Mexican  was  a  poor  judge  of  distance, 
and  overshot  the  mark;  the  blow  which  should 
have  landed  back  of  the  ear  caught  the  cham 
pion  of  Anacapa  Street  fairly  on  the  point. 
Toughie  Gallegher  staggered  backward  and 
went  down  like  a  log.  Manuel  stood  astride 
of  him  for  an  instant,  his  eyes  flashing  and  his 
teeth  bared.  When  he  saw  that  his  tormentor 
was  unconscious,  all  the  pent-up  rage  of  five 
years  boiled  over  in  his  soul.  He  threw  himself 
upon  the  prostrate  bully  and  began  mauling  him 
with  both  hands.  I  regret  to  say  that  he  used 
his  finger  nails  as  well,  and  when  the  other  boys 
dragged  him  away,  screaming  and  swearing  by 
turns,  he  had  left  his  permanent  mark  upon 
Toughie 's  face  in  the  shape  of  a  deep  twin  fur 
row  from  the  outer  corner  of  the  left  eye  to  the 
chin. 

"An*  the  nex'  fella  what  go  to  fight  me," 
yelled  Manuel  hysterically, ;  *  I  keel  him !  I  tear 
the  eyes  out !  I  keel  him ;  you  see  if  I  don ' ! " 

That  was  Manuel's  first  victory.  He  paid  for 
it  with  a  dozen  unmerciful  whippings,  for 

[269] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Toughie  was  bent  on  wiping  away  the  disgrace 
of  that  knockout,  but  he  could  not  beat  out  of 
Manuel's  head  the  memory  of  that  moment  when 
he  saw  the  redoubtable  Gallegher  flat  in  the 
grass. 

The  time  soon  came  when  Toughie  thought 
twice  before  going  to  war  with  the  little  Mexi 
can.  Billy  Willis,  a  retired  lightweight  of  local 
reputation,  taught  Manuel  to  box.  The  boy 
picked  up  the  rudiments  of  the  game  as  a  pigeon 
picks  up  wheat.  He  had  all  the  lithe,  catlike 
grace  of  the  men  of  his  blood,  which,  under  in 
struction,  developed  into  a  fast,  tricky  defense, 
and  coupled  with  the  tremendous  power  of  his 
right-handers,  made  him  cock  of  the  walk.  At 
eighteen  he  ruled  over  the  beach  district  like  a 
czar. 

At  nineteen  he  weighed  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  pounds ;  Toughie  Gallegher  weighed 
one  hundred  and  ninety  and  drove  a  truck  when 
sober.  There  are  some  who  remember  how  Man 
uel  pulled  that  overgrown  lout  from  the  driver's 
seat  and  thrashed  him  in  the  middle  of  State 
Street  for  all  Santa  Barbara  to  see. 

From  this  matinee  performance  it  was  but  a 
step  to  the  ring.  Billy  Willis  took  his  protege  to 
Ventura,  where,  under  the  name  of  "Kid  Mo 
rales,"  he  won  a  fierce  seven-round  encounter 
with  an  unknown  featherweight  from  Los  An 
geles  who  had  been  tempted  from  home  by  the 
promise  of  a  soft  mark. 

"If  this  greaser  is  soft,"  said  the  victim, 
[270] 


THE   BEVENGE   OF   KID  MORALES 


"what  are  the  hard  ones  like?  He's  got  a  kick 
like  a  mule ! '  ' 

Kid  Morales  received  nine  dollars  as  his  share 
of  the  purse,  and  bought  his  mother  a  shawl  and 
a  pair  of  shoes  with  the  money.  His  next  little 
journey  was  to  Oxnard,  where  he  fought  the 
lightweight  champion  of  the  beet  fields,  and 
whipped  him  in  three  whirlwind  rounds.  People 
began  to  point  him  out  on  the  street,  and  speak 
of  him  as  "Kid  Morales,  the  fighter."  Manuel 
bought  a  new  suit  of  clothes  for  eight  dollars, 
and  tasted  the  sweets  of  public  recognition. 

Inside  of  a  year  he  fought  a  dozen  battles, 
winning  nine  of  them  by  knockouts,  and  losing 
but  one  decision  on  points.  Unquestionably  a 
clever  manager  might  have  made  a  champion 
out  of  him  by  taking  charge  at  this  period  of 
his  development,  but  Billy  Willis  liked  whisky 
too  well  to  be  very  much  interested  in  anything 
else,  and  allowed  Manuel  to  degenerate  into  a 
typical  pork-and-bean  preliminary  fighter— a 
young  man  without  a  trade  or  desire  to  work, 
no  horizon  beyond  the  next  cheap  fight, 
and  no  prospects  save  the  immediate  dollar. 
This  was  a  pity,  for  Manuel  had  many  good 
points,  but  good  points  are  always  the  ones 
soonest  blunted  by  idleness.  A  steady  job  would 
have  made  another  man  out  of  Manuel. 

Between  fights  he  lounged  about  the  street 
corners,  smoking  cigarettes  and  talking  about 
himself.  If  his  word  was  doubted  he  was  always 
ready  to  furnish  proof,  and  because  there  was 
no  one  to  tell  him  that  he  was  throwing  away 

[271] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


salable  material  Manuel  wasted  at  least  ten 
thousand  dollars '  worth  of  hooks  and  swings  in 
barrooms  and  back  alleys  for  which  he  received 
nothing — not  even  credit. 

Worse  than  all  else,  he  developed  a  taste  for 
raw  whisky,  and  when  he  "had  an  edge  on"  was 
inclined  to  be  vindictive  and  quarrelsome.  In 
one  of  these  ugly  moods  he  disagreed  with  Billy 
Willis,  and,  after  whipping  his  manager  very 
thoroughly,  Manuel  drifted  away  from  the  home 
town,  determined  to  fend  for  himself  in  the  fu 
ture,  and  give  no  man  a  cut  of  his  earnings. 
His  mother  heard  from  him  occasionally — al 
ways  with  a  money  order  inclosed — and  by  the 
blue  slip  she  knew  that  Manuelito  had  been 
fighting  again. 

Kid  Morales  played  his  lone  hand  for  two 
years  with  varying  fortunes.  He  would  not 
train  faithfully — as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  not 
know  how — but  he  was  always  willing  to  fight, 
and  this  made  him  popular  with  certain  man 
agers  who  were  quick  to  take  advantage  of 
Manuel's  lack  of  business  instinct.  As  a  gen 
eral  thing,  he  asked  but  two  questions  about  a 
match— "When?"  and  "How  much?" 

One  morning  Kid  Morales  was  sitting  in  the 
outer  office  of  a  successful  fight  promoter,  wait 
ing  to  borrow  two  dollars  on  the  strength  of  his 
last  victory.  At  last  he  was  admitted  to  the 
sanctum  of  the  great  man. 

"Hello,  Morales!"  said  the  promoter — call 
him  Smith  for  short.    "You're  the  very  fellow 
I've  been  wanting  to  see.    Sit  down." 
'      [272] 


THE    REVENGE    OF    KID    MORALES 


Kid  Morales  sat  down  and  turned  his  som 
brero  over  and  over  in  his  hands.  He  had  never 
before  been  asked  to  take  a  chair  in  the  inner 
office — his  business  was  usually  transacted 
standing. 

"Kid,"  said  Smith,  "can  you  do  the  light 
weight  limit?" 

"Sure!"  answered  the  fighter.  "For  a  long 
time  I  don't  make  weight,  but  I  think  I  can  do 
her  all  right." 

"How'd  you  like  a  main  event?"  asked  Smith. 

"Weeth  who?"  demanded  Morales,  surprised 
into  caution. 

"Charlie  Duffy,"  said  Smith,  eying  Morales 
shrewdly. 

"Ho!"  said  Morales.  "That  fella  he  leeck 
Yo'ng  Murphy  an'  Keelpatrick,  an*  that 
bunch?" 

"He's  the  one,"  said  Smith.  "Tough  guy. 
Do  you  want  him  ? ' ' 

Morales  lighted  a  cigarette,  blew  a  puff  into 
the  air,  waved  his  hands  airily,  and  smiled. 

"I  fight  anybody,  everybody,"  he  said,  with  a 
grin.  "Fightin',  she's  my  business.  What  I 
care,  eh?  How  much  I  get  for  it?" 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty." 

"Win,  lose,  or  draw?" 

Smith  nodded. 

"Ha !"  chuckled  Morales.  "I  fight  weeth  oP 
Jim  Jaffray  for  that  much  coin!" 

' '  Good ! ' '  said  Smith.  "  I  Ve  been  after  Duffy 
for  the  last  six  months,  and  now  he  says  he'll 
take  the  July  date,  but  because  he's  going  to 
[273] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


fight  in  San  Francisco  in  September  he  won't 
take  on  either  Peterson  or  Dunn.  They're  pretty 
tough  birds  themselves,  and  Duffy  has  been  side 
stepping  'em,  but  he  says  I  can  pick  any  one 
else,  and  it  will  be  all  right.  If  you  are  sure  you 
can  make  the  weight,  you'll  get  the  match." 

Kid  Morales  glanced  down  at  the  slight  bulge 
in  his  waistline. 

"I  got  little  belly  on  me,"  he  said  modestly, 
"but  she  come  right  off  soon  as  I  go  on  the  road 
a  few  times." 

"No  more  booze  now,"  warned  Smith,  "and 
ease  up  on  those  cigarettes.  You  go  out  to  Ma- 
haffey's  place,  and  tell  him  I  sent  you  there 
to  train.  I'll  pay  your  expenses,  you  furnish 
your  own  sparring  partner." 

"All  right,"  said  Kid  Morales. 

That  afternoon  Smith  wrote  a  letter  to  Duf 
fy's  manager,  from  which  a  paragraph  might 
be  quoted: 

He  is  a  Mexican  and  a  sort  of  a  tramp,  but  he  has  won 
three  fights  in  the  town — all  with  bums — and  he  should  be  a 
fair  sort  of  a  card,  though,  -xf  course,  Duffy  would  draw, 
matched  with  any  one.  Duffy  ou^ht  to  drop  him  inside  of  five 
rounds,  as  Morales  takes  no  caro  of  himself,  and  has  never 
really  trained  for  a  fight  in  his  life.  Better  come  on  here  as 
Boon  as  you  can,  and  make  a  bluff  at  working  to  stimulate  the 
interest.  We  don't  want  to  make  it  look  too  easy. 

n 

Kid  Morales,  quartered  at  Mahaffey's  road 

house,  assured  of  three  meals  a  day,  and  two 

hundred  and  fifty  dollars  after  the  fight,  allowed 

nothing  to  worry  him.    Duffy,  he  knew,  was  a 

[274] 


THE   REVENGE    OF    KID    MORALES 


prominent  contender  for  the  lightweight  cham 
pionship,  a  fast  boxer,  a  tremendous  punisher, 
and  a  clean  finisher,  but  these  things  did  not 
disturb  the  Mexican.  He  was  to  get  as  much 
for  losing  as  for  winning,  and  two  hard  years 
had  knocked  the  last  spark  of  ambition  out  of 
his  soul.  In  all  probability  Duffy  would  win, 
but  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  would  buy  a 
suit  of  clothes  and  unlimited  whisky  and  ciga 
rettes,  and  after  the  money  was  gone  there 
would  be  other  fights.  Kid  Morales  wasted  no 
time  in  laying  plans  for  the  future. 

Charlie  Duffy  came  to  town,  wearing  dia 
monds  and  an  air  of  confidence. 

1 '  A  Mexican  ? ' '  said  he,  with  a  sneer.  '  *  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  game  greaser?  I'll  make  this 
one  quit  in  three  rounds." 

Manuel  read  this  statement  in  the  morning 
papers  and  showed  his  white  teeth  above  the 
rim  of  his  coffee  cup. 

"I  don'  know  where  thees  fella  get  off  to  make 
cracks  like  that,"  said  he.  "I  never  queet  in 
my  life.  Plenty  fellas  goin'  leeck  me,  maybe, 
but  nobody  goin'  scare  me.  No  railroad  Irish 
goin'  scare  me,  anyhow,"  he  added,  as  an  after 
thought.  '  *  I  been  raise '  weeth  that  gang. ' ' 

The  newspaper  men,  quick  to  scent  a  "grudge 
fight,"  egged  each  man  on,  taking  a  mischievous 
pleasure  in  stirring  up  personal  feeling.  Kid 
Morales  repeated  his  remark  about  railroad 
Irish,  and  on  the  day  before  the  fight  matters 
had  advanced  to  such  a  pass  that  Duffy  was 
promising  to  make  the  "greaser"  show  the  yel- 
[275] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


low  and  jump  out  of  the  ring,  while  Morales 
was  stoutly  maintaining  that  the  only  men  who 
had  ever  quit  to  him  were  Irish,  and  therefore 
not  game. 

The  men  met  for  the  first  time  at  three  o  'clock 
on  the  day  of  the  fight — the  hour  set  for  the 
weighing.  Duffy's  lip  curled  as  Manuel  dropped 
his  bath  robe  and  stepped  on  the  scales.  He 
took  note  of  the  great,  driving  muscles  in  the 
smooth  brown  back  and  the  trim  waist,  for  Kid 
Morales  was  in  condition  for  the  first  time  in 
two  years,  and  had  every  external  appearance 
of  a  man  fit  for  a  hard  battle.  In  this  respect 
the  Mexican  had  the  advantage,  for  Duffy,  sat 
isfied  that  he  would  be  able  to  win  without  ex 
tending  himself,  had  put  in  less  than  a  week's 
work,  and  was  soft  and  short  of  breath. 

Duffy  was  well  versed  in  the  Fitzsimmons' 
method  of  overawing  an  opponent,  since  known 
as  "goat-getting."  He  lost  no  time  in  begin 
ning  the  operation. 

"Well,  Kid,"  said  Duffy  pleasantly,  "I  hope 
you  ain't  going  to  quit  to-night.  The  people 
want  some  sort  of  a  run  for  their  money,  you 
Jmow.  Be  as  game  as  you  can,  and  try  to  stick 
for  three  rounds,  anyway. ' ' 

Kid  Morales  nodded  soberly. 

"I  never  queet  yet,"  he  said.  "I  never  see 
the  Irishman  could  make  me  queet,  either." 

* l  Take  a  look  at  me ! ' '  said  Duffy. 

"  I  look  at  you  to-night, ' '  said  Morales.  "Wat 
you  tryin'  to  do?  Talk  yourself  into  winnin' 
thees  fight,  no?" 

[276] 


THE   REVENGE   OF   KID   MORALES 


The  newspaper  men  chuckled,  and  Duffy's 
face  flared  brick  red.  He  started  to  splutter, 
but  his  manager,  with  a  fine  eye  for  dramatic 
effect,  leaped  between  the  men  and  hustled 
Duffy  away. 

"Charlie  might  have  jumped  him  right 
there,"  said  the  manager  afterward.  "He's 
awful  hot-headed,  and  when  he  gets  his  Irish 
up  he  ain't  got  a  lick  of  sense." 

"You  didn't  seem  to  scare  him  much,"  said 
a  newspaper  man  to  Duffy,  as  the  latter  was 
hurrying  into  his  clothes. 

"Aw,  he  was  scared  white!"  answered  the 
fighter.  "Wait  till  I  get  a  poke  at  his  chin  and 
you'll  see  him  run  like  a  rabbit." 

"Maybe  he  will  and  maybe  he  won't,"  said 
the  reporter.  "Don't  let  anybody  tell  you  that 
this  brown  baby  isn't  dangerous,  because 
he  is.  Watch  that  right  hand  all  the  time,  be 
cause  if  he  gets  you  with  it,  you'll  know  that 
you've  got  a  fight  on  your  hands." 

"He  couldn't  hit  me  with  a  buggy  whip!" 
boasted  Duffy. 

At  nine  o  'clock  Kid  Morales,  escorted  by  his 
trainer  and  two  seconds,  entered  the  dressing 
room  at  the  fight  pavilion.  In  his  coat  pocket 
there  was  a  pint  flask  of  whisky — as  yet  un 
touched.  The  seconds  might  provide  the  spring 
water  and  the  smelling  salts ;  Kid  Morales  clung 
to  the  stimulant  which  had  carried  him  through 
many  a  hard  fight. 

While  he  was  slowly  removing  his  clothes  and 
preparing  for  the  ring,  a  bustle  on  the  other  side 

[277] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


of  the  low  partition  announced  the  arrival  of 
his  opponent. 

' '  Gee,  but  I  feel  like  a  champion ! ' '  said  a  loud 
voice,  which  Morales  had  no  trouble  in  identify 
ing  as  Duffy's.  "It'll  be  a  short  fight,  boys, 
I'm  going  to  drop  this  greaser  in  three  rounds, 
sure!" 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  that!"  growled 
Mahaffey,  the  chief  second.  "He's  only  tryin* 
to  buffalo  you,  Kid.  Forget  it!" 

Then  up  spoke  Duffy's  manager,  his  voice 
pitched  to  reach  the  unseen  audience. 

"Nobody  likes  this  guy,"  said  he  cheerfully. 
"He's  only  a  Mexican,  and  he  ain't  got  a  friend 
in  the  house.  Pile  into  him  at  the  tap  of  the 
gong,  and  give  him  all  the  rough  stuff  you've 
got.  They  wouldn't  do  anything  to  you  if  you 
should  happen  to  kill  him.  It  wouldn't  even 
be  manslaughter.  Tear  his  black  head  off, 
Charlie!" 

"Hah!"  said  the  fighter  scornfully.  "He 
won't  take  more  than  one  good  punch  without 
quitting.  If  he'll  stay  and  mix  it  with  me,  I'll 
murder  him  in  the  ring. ' ' 

* '  Send  the  bum  back  to  the  brakebeams,  where 
he  figures,"  urged  another  voice.  "He's  got  a 
nerve  going  up  against  a  real  fighter!" 

"I 'ill  send  him  to  the  hospital!"  (snarled 
Duffy.  "Same  as  I  did  that  fellow  in  Milwau 
kee.  Fractured  skull,  he  had,  didn  't  he  ?  " 

"Concussion  of  the  brain,"  corrected  the 
manager.  "He  ain't  right  yet,  that  guy.  Never 
mind  the  hospital,  Charlie.  Send  this  greaser 

[278] 


THE   REVENGE   OF   KID   MORALES 


straight  to  the  morgue.  Here's  one  time  when 
you  can  cut  loose,  and  hit  just  as  hard  as  you 
want  to  without  being  afraid  of  gettin'  pinched. 
Make  it  the  morgue  for  his ! ' ' 

Kid  Morales  heard  every  word.  He  was  not 
elxactly  frightened,  but  the  reference  to  the 
morgue  did  not  please  him.  His  stomach  felt 
uncomfortably  cold,  and  he  remembered  all  the 
things  he  had  ever  heard  about  Duffy's  tremen 
dous  punishing  power.  Something  prompted 
him  to  reach  for  the  pint  flask. 

"She  make  me  fight  better,"  said  Morales. 

"Might  as  well  be  drunk  as  scared  to  death," 
said  Mahaff ey,  under  his  breath.  * '  If  you  listen 
to  what  this  Duffy  says,  he  '11  talk  you  out  of  a 
chance  to  win.  That's  the  way  he  beat  Young 
Murphy — kept  kidding  him  until  Murph 
dropped  his  guard  and  went  in  wild,  and  then 
— bang!  Here!  What  ye  tryin'  to  do?  Drink 
all  of  that  stuff  ?  Leave  a  little  for  politeness ! ' ' 

A  little  later  Kid  Morales  found  himself  in 
the  ring.  The  chill  had  gone  from  his  stomach, 
and  the  faint  tremors  from  his  knees ;  the  alco 
hol  was  doing  its  work. 

Duffy  was  borne  in  on  a  wave  of  cheers.  He 
did  not  offer  to  shake  hands.  Kid  Morales,  re 
membering  the  morgue,  kept  his  seat,  and  a 
buzz  went  through  the  house. 

"They're  sore  at  each  other,"  said  the  ring- 
aiders.  "They  won't  shake  hands.  It  ought  to 
be  a  peach  of  a  fight." 

When  the  men  went  to  the  center  for  instruc 
tions  Duffy  offered  a  suggestion. 
[279] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Warn  this  greaser  about  a  foul,"  said  he. 
"They  tell  me  that  whenever  he's  taking  a  lick 
ing  he  fights  dirty." 

"I'll  warn  you  both,"  said  the  referee.  "I 
will  allow  no  technical  claim  of  foul  unless  one 
or  the  other  of  you  is  hurt.  Fight  as  long  as 
one  arm  is  free,  and  protect  yourselves  in  the 
break.  Go  to  your  corners. " 

m 

Kid  Morales  went  slowly  to  the  center,  crouch 
ing  slightly,  his  left  extended  at  full  length. 
Duffy  walked  over  in  the  most  unconcerned 
manner  in  the  world,  and  without  a  shadow  of 
a  feint  shot  his  left  glove  to  Manuel's  face. 
The  Mexican  clinched  immediately,  and  Duffy 
brought  his  lips  close  to  Manuel's  ear. 

"Now,  then,  you  Mexican  hairless  dog,"  said 
he,  "are  you  going  to  fight,  or  are  you  going 
to  quit!" 

Morales  hurled  Duffy  from  him,  but  as  he 
went  the  white  boy  ripped  home  with  a  stinging 
short  uppercut  which  rattled  Manuel's  teeth, 
and  the  crowd  cheered.  The  blow  did  not  travel 
more  than  six  inches,  but  the  force  with  which 
it  impinged  on  Manuel's  chin  inspired  that 
young  man  with  a  healthy  respect  for  Duffy's 
hitting  power,  and  caused  him  to  wonder  what 
would  happen  if  the  Irishman  ever  ' '  pulled  one 
from  his  hip ' '  and  landed  it  in  the  same  place. 

The  men  sparred  for  several  seconds,  and 
then  Duffy  drove  a  left  to  the  body.  Morales' 
[280] 


THE   EEVENGE    OF    KID    MORALES 


guard  went  down,  and  over  came  the  right  hand, 
a  clean  blow,  delivered  with  crushing  force. 
Manuel  ducked  and  took  it  on  his  forehead,  but 
even  so  he  was  almost  knocked  to  the  floor. 
He  staggered  backward,  but  recovered  in  time 
to  clinch  as  Duffy  pressed  in  to  follow  his  ad 
vantage. 

"See  him  hanging  on!"  yelled  Duffy  to  the 
referee.  "He  wants  to  quit  already!" 

"Break!"  ordered  the  referee,  but  Manuel 
clung  until  the  official  was  forced  to  go  between 
the  fighters,  when  he  skipped  nimbly  out  of 
danger. 

"I  knew  you  had  a  streak!"  taunted  Duffy, 
advancing  again.  "Come  on  and  fight,  you 
yellow-hammer!  Don't  quit  in  the  first  round. 
Give  the  people  some  sort  of  a  run  for  their 
money ! ' ' 

"Don't  listen  to  him!"  bawled  Mahaffey. 
"Take  your  time  and  cop  him  with  that  right!" 

* '  Fight !  Fight ! ' '  roared  the  crowd.  "  Go  on 
and  fight!" 

Duffy  ended  the  round  in  a  series.  o£  rushes, 
Morales  blocking  with  elbows  and  forearms,  and 
covering  his  jaw  with  his  left  shoulder.  Not 
once  during  the  first  round  did  he  attempt  to 
land  a  blow.  For  the  first  time  in  his  ring  ca 
reer,  Kid  Morales  was  afraid.  Here  was  a  man 
against  whom  his  defense  availed  little ;  a  man 
who  could  hit  him  when  he  wanted  to  and  knew 
how  to  hit  hard.  Manuel  thought  of  the  boy  in 
the  hospital  in  Milwaukee,  and  hunched  his  left 
shoulder  higher  than  ever. 
[281] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


In  his  corner  Manuel  pleaded  for  the  bottle, 
and  Mahaffey  gave  it  to  him  with  a  sarcastic 
grin. 

"You  couldn't  be  fightin'  any  worse,"  said 
he.  "Perhaps  the  booze  will  give  ye  a  little 
courage. ' ' 

In  the  second  round  Duffy  succeeded  in  feint 
ing  Morales  wide  open  to  the  right  swing,  and 
the  Mexican  went  down  with  a  thump.  He 
found  himself  at  the  count  of  three,  and  opened 
his  eyes.  Duffy,  leaning  upon  the  ropes,  was 
looking  down  at  him  and  laughing. 

"Stay  there,  you  dog,"  said  the  Irishman. 
"Go  on  and  quit.  You've  got  an  excuse." 

Slowly  Manuel  hauled  himself  to  his  knees. 
His  better  judgment  told  him  to  remain  on  the 
floor.  His  brain  was  whirling  and  his  limbs 
were  numb;  there  was  a  dull  ache  at  the  back 
of  his  head.  All  the  life  had  been  knocked  out 
of  him  by  a  single  blow — it  was  a  new  experi 
ence  and  an  unpleasant  one. 

' '  Come  on ;  get  up.    I  dare  you  I ' '  said  Duffy. 

' '  Seven — eight — nine ' ' 

Manuel  got  on  his  feet,  and  began  to  run, 
Duffy  pursuing  him  with  both  hands  flying. 
Luck  favored  the  Mexican.  A  buzzing  right 
hander  barely  grazed  his  chin,  and  before  Duffy 
could  recover  his  balance,  Morales  had  both 
arms  pinned  at  his  sides,  and  was  hanging  on 
for  dear  life.  He  clinched  until  the  referee  tore 
him  away  by  main  strength,  blocked  another 
swing,  and  clinched  again.  He  was  still  hug 
ging  Duffy  when  the  bell  rang,  and  the  very 
[282] 


THE    REVENGE    OF    KID    MORALES 


shingles  on  the  roof  rattled  to  the  hoots  and 
jeers  of  the  crowd. 

"Can  he  hit?'*  asked  Mahaffey,  with  profes 
sional  interest,  as  he  waved  the  smelling  salts 
under  Manuel's  nose. 

' *  Hit ! ' '  gasped  the  Mexican.  ' 1 1  see  him  start 
that  one.  I'm  wide  open;  I  can't  go  in;  I  can't 
go  back.  Bam!  He  catch  me  on  the  jaw.  I 
think  the  roof  she  fall  in." 

"Why  don't  you  do  some  fighting  yourself?" 
demanded  Mahaffey.  "Get  in  there  and  take 
a  chance." 

"I  ain't  started  weeth  him  yet,"  said  Manuel. 

"Better  start  quick,  then,"  said  Mahaffey, 
with  a  wink  at  the  newspaper  men. 

'  *  One  more  little  shot  and  I  begin ! ' '  said  Man 
uel. 

Another  scalding  swallow  of  liquid  courage 
and  he  was  on  his  feet,  walking  none  too  stead 
ily,  to  the  middle  of  the  ring. 

"Are  you  going  to  fight  now?"  asked  Duffy, 
as  he  circled  about  his  prey. 

"Yes,  maybe  I  fight  now,"  answered  Manuel. 

"Good  news!"  said  the  Irishman.  His  left 
glove  shot  forward,  straight  as  the  drive  of  a 
piston.  Manuel's  head  jerked  backward,  and 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sickening  pain  at  the 
bridge  of  his  nose — a  pain  which  spread  until 
his  very  teeth  ached  and  his  eyesight  became 
blurred.  A  warm  stream  trickled  down  over  his 
chin. 

"Greaser  blood,  eh?"  said  Duffy.  "Why- 
it's  red!  They  told  me  it  was  yellow.  Let's 
[283] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


draw  some  more  of  it  and  see ! "  He  struck  again 
before  Manuel  could  leap  to  a  clinch. 

"Where's  that  right  hand  of  yours?"  in 
quired  Duffy. 

"She's  here,"  said  Manuel. 

"You  boys  quit  talking,  and  do  some  fight 
ing!"  ordered  the  referee.  "Break  there,  Mo 
rales!" 

"Well,  he  talk  weeth  me,"  said  Manuel,  slip 
ping  out  of  the  clinch  and  retreating,  his  gloves 
held  high,  his  elbows  protecting  his  stomach. 

"Get  a  fire  ax  and  open  the  greaser  up," 
suggested  a  ringsider.  "He's  tied  up  in  a  knot 
like  a  tarantula ! ' '  By  defensive  tactics  Manuel 
reached  the  end  of  the  third  round  without  fur 
ther  damage.  The  crowd  was  in  an  uproar,  and 
Mahaffey  had  a  message  from  Promoter  Smith 
which  caused  Manuel  to  blink  his  eyes. 

"The  boss  says,"  remarked  Mahaffey,  "that 
if  you  don't  do  some  fighting  in  the  next  round 
he'll  have  you  thrown  out  of  the  ring,  and  you 
won't  get  a  cent." 

"But,"  expostulated  Manuel,  "he  says  he  pay 
me — win,  lose,  or  draw. ' ' 

"He  won't  pay  you  anything  unless  you 
fight!"  said  Mahaffey.  "You  haven't  taken  a 
punch  at  this  fellow  in  three  rounds,  and  all 
you're  doing  is  running  and  covering  up.  Mind 
now,  unless  you  do  something  you'll  be  thrown 
out  of  the  ring.  What's  more,  Smith  never  lets 
up  on  a  fellow  that  dogs  it  and  spoils  a  show  for 
him.  He  '11  queer  you  and  chase  you  out  of  the 
business.  Now,  get  busy!" 
[284] 


THE    REVENGE    OF    KID    MORALES 


If  Manuel  was  entirely  lacking  in  ambition, 
he  was  not  without  a  keen  appreciation  of  the 
silver  fruits  of  his  toil.  Minus  the  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  there  would  be  no  com 
fortable  period  of  idleness,  no  new  clothes,  less 
whisky,  and  fewer  cigarettes. 

Manuel's  first  wild  impulse  was  to  rush  out 
of  his  corner,  and  stake  everything  on  a  whirl 
wind  exchange  of  blows.  Then  he  remembered 
the  two  jaw  punches,  and  the  overhand  right  on 
the  forehead  and  his  valor  oozed  away.  Why 
mix  it  with  a  man  who  favored  that  style  of 
fighting?  Manuel  knew  that  if  he  could  get  at 
Duffy's  jaw  with  his  right  hand,  the  battle 
would  not  be  quite  so  one-sided,  but  he  had 
noticed  that  no  matter  how  careless  the  Irish 
man  seemed  to  be,  his  left  shoulder  was  always 
well  hunched  to  cover  the  vulnerable  spot.  If 
he  could  only  get  that  shoulder  down 

The  crowd  cheered  derisively  when  Manuel 
left  his  corner. 

"Why  don't  you  fight,  Morales?" 

"Yellow  as  a  canary  bird!" 

"Give  him  a  little  more  booze  and  a  knife!" 

"Come  on!"  begged  Duffy.    "Ain't  you  got 
any  nerve  at  all?    Take  a  chance!" 
.!    And,  by  way  of  encouragement,  he  proceeded 
to  jab  Manuel's  battered  nose.    Manuel  began 
to  use  his  left,  hooking  and  jabbing  cautiously, 
but  there  was  no  steam  behind  the  effort,  and 
Duffy  laughed  at  him.    The  men  in  the  audi 
ence   slipped   on  their  automobile  coats   and 
edged  over  toward  the  aisles. 
[285] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"A  rotten  show!"  was  the  general  verdict. 

The  round  was  half  over  when  Duffy  found 
an  opening  for  a  right  uppercut,  and  whipped 
it  in  like  a  flash.  It  had  speed,  and  it  was  a 
showy  punch,  but  that  was  all,  for  Duffy  was 
not  "set"  to  lift  his  weight  into  the  blow,  yet 
the  Mexican  flopped  forward  to  his  knees,  his 
head  resting  upon  the  floor.  The  referee  took 
one  disgusted  look,  and  began  to  count. 

' '  He  ain  't  hurt ;  he 's  quitting ! ' '  bawled  Duffy, 
waving  his  hands  at  the  crowd.  "I  didn't  hit 
him  hard  enough  to  break  an  egg!" 

Manuel  heard  him  distinctly,  and  his  small, 
black  eyes  flashed  fire.  He  had  all  he  could  do 
to  repress  a  grin.  Once  more  he  pulled  himself 
together,  and  at  the  nine  count  he  came  unstead 
ily  to  his  feet,  eyes  vacant,  jaw  sagging,  reel 
ing  like  a  drunken  man — as  indeed  he  was. 

"Good  night!"  said  Mahaffey,  with  a  snort. 
"Pipe  his  knees.  And  that  didn't  look  to  me 
like  a  hard  punch,  either. 

Some  such  thought  flashed  through  Duffy 'a 
mind  at  the  same  time.  Possibly  he  had  been 
mistaken  about  the  force  in  that  uppercut.  He 
swung  again,  Manuel  dodged  awkwardly,  and 
stumbled  into  a  clinch,  his  legs  wide  apart  and 
quivering,  and  his  head  rolling  from  side  to  side. 

"Gee!"  grunted  Kid  Morales.  "That  one, 
she  shake  me  up ! "  His  eyes  were  half  closed  to 
a  beady  glitter,  every  muscle  was  relaxed,  and 
he  seemed  helpless. 

"Yes,  and  I'll  shake  you  up  worse  the  next 
time!"  said  Duffy. 

[2861 


THE   REVENGE   OF    KID    MORALES 


*  *  Break ! '  Bordered  the  referee.  ' l  Let  go,  Mo 
rales!" 

Manuel  cautiously  disengaged  his  right  hand, 
and  stretched  his  arm  at  full  length,  the  glove 
slightly  higher  than  Duffy's  head.  By  such  a 
motion  a  fighter  sometimes  signifies  his  inten 
tion  of  breaking  " clean,"  and  Duffy  so  inter 
preted  it.  He  dropped  his  guard  instantly,  and 
stepped  back,  sneering. 

What  followed  came  so  swiftly  that  no  warn 
ing  yell  could  reach  Duffy's  ears.  As  the  Irish 
man's  left  glove  fell  at  his  side,  Manuel  stif 
fened  from  heel  to  shoulder,  the  great  back 
muscles  leaped  under  the  skin,  and  down  came 
the  right  hand  like  a  slanting  thunderbolt,  full 
on  Duffy's  unprotected  jaw.  It  was  half  hook, 
half  swing,  a  blow  which  would,  have  felled  a 
Sharkey,  and  wrapped  in  that  brown  glove  was 
Manuel's  hope  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
— the  new  clothes,  the  whisky,  the  cigarettes, 
and  the  long,  comfortable  period  of  idleness. 

Duffy  toppled  forward  upon  his  face,  and 
never  twitched  a  muscle  while  the  referee  count 
ed  him  out. 

IV 

In  the  dressing  room  Kid  Morales  drank  the 
rest  of  the  whisky,  and  listened  to  an  indistinct 
mumbling  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition. 

"But— what  was  it?  What  happened?"  a 
querulous  voice  was  asking  over  and  over. 

"You  dropped  both  hands — like  a  sucker," 
said  Duffy's  manager,  "and  the  greaser  copped 
[287] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


you  on  the  jaw.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  watch  out 
for  his  right  hand?  He  stalled  like  he  was  hurt, 
and  you  fell  for  it. ' ' 

"I'll  fight  him  again!"  wailed  Duffy. 
"There  ain't  a  greaser  on  earth  can  lick  me, 
Tommy !  You  know  it ! " 

Many  fists  drummed  on  the  door. 

"The  newspaper  boys,"  said  Mahaffey. 
"They  want  to  see  you." 

"Sure!"  said  Kid  Morales,  regretfully  exam 
ining  the  empty  flask.  "Let  'em  come  in." 

The  victor  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  rub-down 
table,  and  received  congratulations  modestly — 
or  as  modestly  as  a  man  may  when  clad  only 
in  a  pair  of  fighting  shoes. 

"What  do  you  want  to  say  about  the  fight?" 
asked  one  of  the  reporters. 

"You  want  to  know?" 

"Sure  thing!" 

"You  put  it  in  the  paper,  w'at  I  say?" 

"You  bet  we  will!" 

Manuel  raised  his  hand. 

'  *  Everybody  be  quiet ! "  he  said.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  partition  the  muttering  died  away, 
and  each  word  carried  straight  into  the  hostile 
camp. 

"Listen!"  said  Kid  Morales.  "You  think 
maybe  I  hit  that  fella  pretty  hard,  no?  Bah! 
I  jus'  rap  him  easy — like  so !"  He  made  a  lan 
guid  pass  through  the  air  with  his  right  hand. 
"I  jus'  hit  him  once  in  all  the  fight.  You  ask 
me  w'at  I  got  to  say.  I  tell  you:  Duffy,  he  queet 
like  a  yella  dog — lie  queet!" 

[288] 


EASY  PICKING 


OLD    BIRD"    BENNETT    was    not    a 
prophet,  nor  in  any  way  related  to  one ; 
nevertheless,  he  was  considerably  with 
out  honor  in  his  home  town.    Worse  than  that, 
he  was  out  of  a  job,  and  there  were  those  who 
talked  of  tarring  and  feathering  him  and  riding 
him  upon  a  rail. 

His  was  not  a  case  of  talent  passing  unrecog 
nized.  The  small  matter  of  a  business  arrange 
ment  with  another  gentleman  of  the  gloved  le 
gion  leaked  out  and  became  common  scandal, 
whereat  the  outraged  public  arose  and  howled 
like  a  wolf  in  the  snow.  The  Old  Bird  was  at 
once  placed  upon  the  black  list  until  such  time 
as  the  fight  fans  should  forget  that  he  had  al 
lowed  "T-bone"  Eiley  to  stay  ten  rounds  and 
take  a  bloodless  decision  over  him.  When  a 
man  bets  two  to  one  on  his  excellent  judgment 
and  loses  because  of  prearrangement  on  the 
part  of  his  favorite,  he  is  apt  to  recall  the  cir 
cumstances  for  some  time. 

' '  Just  my  luck ! ' '  whined  Old  Bird,  with  bit 
terness.    '  *  T-bone  has  to  go  and  get  his  nose  wet 
and  pull  a  George  Washington  on  me!" 
[289] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Old  Bird  had  often  feelingly  referred  to  him 
self  as  the  unluckiest  fighter  living,  and  the  last 
turn  of  affairs  had  gone  far  to  convince  him  of 
the  truth  of  the  statement.  With  just  a  tiny  bit 
of  luck,  he  might  have  been  the  lightweight 
champion  of  the  world  instead  of  the  king  of  all 
pork-and-beaners  and  the  toughest  trial  horse 
in  the  Queensberry  stable. 

Old  Bird  was  a  pugilistic  fixture.  Some  years 
before  he  had  fluttered  into  town  from  nowhere, 
unannounced  by  any  press  agent,  and  carrying 
his  credentials  in  his  right  hand. 

It  so  happened  that  Peter  Mulcahey,  fight 
promoter  and  friend  of  all  deserving  battlers 
who  were  inclined  to  be  reasonable  about  money 
matters,  was  grooming  Tommy  Derrick,  a  prom 
ising  pork-and-bean  performer,  for  the  main- 
event  class.  Mulcahey,  a  shrewd  judge  of  a 
drawing  card,  believed  that  one  more  hollow 
victory  would  put  Derrick  in  line  for  higher 
honors,  but  the  local  pork-and-bean  boys,  valu 
ing  their  health,  refused  to  appear  in  the  role  of 
a  stepping-stone.  At  this  juncture,  Old  Bird 
furled  his  dusty  wings  in  Peter  Mulcahey 's 
outer  office,  and  announced  his  willingness  to 
"meet  any  one-hundred-and-thirty- three-pound 
boy  in  the  world. ' '  The  odd  thing  about  it  was 
that  he  meant  it. 

Peter  Mulcahey  was  relieved.  The  gods  of 
sport  and  good  business  demanded  a  sacrifice, 
and  here  was  one,  ready  to  hand,  clamoring  to 
be  offered  up  for  the  nominal  sum  of  twenty- 
five  dollars.  Old  Bird  was  elected  without  a 
[290] 


EASY   PICKING 


dissenting  vote,  and  the  club  press  agent  re 
ferred  to  him  hopefully  as  "a  rising  lightweight 
of  the  Middle  West." 

Old  Bird  trained  as  much  as  two  whole  days, 
and,  having  been  advanced  a  small  sum'for  liv 
ing  expenses,  entered  the  ring  full  of  mince  pie 
and  stern  determination.  He  had  never  heard 
of  this  man  Derrick,  never  seen  his  picture  in 
the  Police  Gazette,  and  consequently  did  not 
think  much  of  his  prowess.  Tommy  Derrick  en 
tertained  similar  sentiments  regarding  Old 
Bird,  a  condition  of  affairs  ripe  for  surprises. 

The  result  of  that  battle  was  a  severe  disap 
pointment  to  Peter  Mulcahey,  for  his  local  star 
set  with  great  suddenness,  never  to  rise  again. 
Mr.  Nobody  from  Nowhere  waded  through 
Tommy  Derrick  with  a  succession  of  right 
swings  mostly  fetched  from  the  hip,  and  Tommy 
went  direct  from  the  ringside  to  the  hospital, 
where  he  remained  until  his  ribs  grew  together 
again.  Old  Bird  was  immediately  matched  with 
another  pork-and-beaner  with  lie  result,  bar 
ring  the  hospital  bill.  In  six  months  Bennett 
established  himself  as  the  best  third-rater  in  the 
West,  and  Peter  Mulcahey  graduated  him  into 
the  main-event  class,  where  men  are  paid  in 
three  figures  instead  of  two. 

Old  Bird  whipped  every  second-rater  whom 
he  could  hit  with  his  right  hand,  and  passed  on 
into  the  first  division,  where  he  met  what  he 
called  hard  luck,  and  the  wisest  of  the  ringside 
critics  called  "class."  He  took  a  few  draws  be 
cause  of  his  aggressiveness,  scored  one  famous 
[291] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


knock-out,  and  lost  four  decisions  on  points. 
The  great  difference  between  a  first-class  fight 
ing  man  and  a  second-rater  lies  in  speed;  the 
top-notchers  were  too  fast  for  Old  Bird.  He 
could  not  hit  them;  he  was  a  selling  plater 
against  stake  horses. 

Peter  Mulcahey  stuck  to  him  nobly,  and  at 
last  secured  for  him  a  match  with  the  Old  Mas 
ter,  the  negro  champion,  last  of  that  great  ga 
laxy  of  lightweight  stars  of  the  nineties.  The 
Old  Master  no  longer  had  the  fire  of  youth,  the 
vitality  which  had  carried  him  through  one  hun 
dred  battles,  but  he  retained  his  marvelous  clev 
erness,  and  Old  Bird's  chance  for  a  world's 
championship  disappeared  in  a  blinding  flurry 
of  jabs,  jolts,  hooks,  and  uppercuts  which 
left  him  dazed  and  battered  at  the  end  of  twenty 
rounds.  From  beginning  to  end,  Old  Bird  never 
ceased  swinging  his  pulverizing  right  at  that 
lean,  brown  jaw;  not  once  had  he  been  able  to 
hit  the  mark.  The  Old  Master  made  him  miss 
by  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  Bennett  blamed 
his  luck  when  he  should  have  given  the  negro 
credit  for  remarkable  judgment  of  distance. 

"Yo*  pretty  strong,  white  boy,"  the  Old 
Master  mumbled  to  him  in  the  eighteenth  round, 
"but  thass  all — yes,  thass  all.  Some  day  yo'll 
hit  somebody  with  that  right  swing  an'  knock 
him  up  in  the  gallery.  * ' 

That  night  marked  the  top  of  the  grade  for 

Old  Bird.     After  that  his  way  led  downhill. 

Before  very  long,  he  found  himself  established 

as   the   trial   horse   for   all   newcomers — the 

[292] 


EASY    PICKING 


younger  men  with  championship  aspirations. 
If  he  whipped  them,  people  said  it  was  to  be 
expected;  he  got  little  credit,  and  less  money. 
If  they  whipped  him,  they  passed  on  to  better 
matches.  Old  Bird  Bennett  was  the  official 
stumblingblock  in  the  lightweight  path,  and  the 
fate  of  a  stumblingblock  is  to  be  kicked  by  every 
traveler  who  passes  that  way. 

It  was  during  the  period  of  his  decline  that 
Old  Bird  made  his  business  arrangement  with 
T-bone  Riley.  T-bone  was  no  embryo  cham 
pion,  and  the  match  was  made  as  a  "filler." 
Old  Bird  should  have  whipped  him  in  three 
rounds  without  a  minute's  preparation,  and, 
this  being  the  general  opinion,  Bennett  ruled 
the  favorite  at  two  to  one.  His  admirers  were 
grateful  for  the  sudden  influx  of  T-bone  money, 
and  snapped  it  up  hungrily.  Then  Old  Bird 
went  into  the  ring,  and  boxed  like  an  inebriated 
fishwife.  T-bone  stabbed  him  for  ten  sickening 
rounds  without  a  return.  The  referee  saw  his 
duty,  and  did  it  like  a  man,  the  gallery  roared 
murder,  and  still  all  would  have  been  well,  had 
not  T-bone  celebrated  his  victory  in  a  manner 
to  muddle  the  intellect  and  loosen  the  tongue. 
He  told  all  he  knew.  It  was  not  much,  but  it 
was  enough. 

Honest  confession  is  said  to  be  good  for  the 
soul,  but  some  people  who  have  given  it  a  trial 
claim  that  it  is  bad  for  business.  The  reporters 
heard  about  it,  of  course,  and  the  next  day  a 
great  moral  wave  swept  over  the  pugilistic  com 
munity.  Old  Bird's  picture  was  in  all  the  pa- 
[293] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


pers,  together  with  the  announcement  that 
Peter  Mulcahey  had  barred  him  as  an  undesir 
able  citizen  and  a  faker. 

Old  Bird  made  it  his  business  to  hunt  up  his 
loquacious  friend  Eiley,  and  when  he  found  him 
the  ten-round  decision  was  speedily  reversed, 
but  T-bone's  broken  jaw  did  not  mend  matters 
— it  only  made  them  worse.  It  was  as  if  Ben 
nett  had  pleaded  guilty  to  the  indictment. 

Having  been  accustomed  to  fight  whenever  he 
ran  short  of  funds,  Old  Bird  soon  found  himself 
in  a  nasty  predicament.  He  might  have  gone 
to  work,  of  course,  but  no  man  who  has  ever 
fought  a  champion  of  the  world  for  twenty 
rounds  is  likely  to  do  that  sort  of  thing  unless 
there  is  no  other  method  of  obtaining  three 
meals  a  day. 

After  a  precarious  few  weeks,  during  which 
time  Old  Bird  learned  that  the  friends  of  a 
man's  prosperous  days  seldom  follow  him  into 
an  eclipse,  he  became  a  sparring  partner,  work 
ing  for  board  and  lodging  and  fifteen  dollars  a 
week.  He  boxed  with  men  whom  he  might  have 
beaten  in  a  punch,  and  the  knowledge  was  gall 
and  wormwood  to  him.  While  other  boys  fought, 
he  squatted  in  the  corner,  nursing  a  towel  and 
telling  himself  that  he  could  lick  "the  both  of 
'em"  in  the  same  ring.  Sometimes  he  told  him 
self  the  truth,  for  Old  Bird  had  never  lost  his 
annihilating  right-hand  swing,  and  when  he  hit 
a  man  squarely  with  it  the  floor  came  up  and 
bumped  him. 

Old  Bird  went  regularly  to  call  upon  Peter 
[294] 


EASY   PICKING 


Mulcahey,  but  that  moon-faced  philanthropist 
had  but  one  answer  for  him : 

"Not  yet;  the  paper  boys  won't  stand  for  it." 

"Aw,  they've  stood  for  lots  worse  frames!" 
said  Old  Bird,  one  day.  *  *  You  know  they  have ! ' ' 

"I  know  it,  but  they  don't,"  said  Peter. 
"There  wasn't  anybody  to  get  drunk  and  tell 
'em.  You  was  advertised  by  your  loving 
friends,  and  now  you've  got  to  lay  dead  until 
it  blows  over.  See ! ' ' 

"But  I  can't  wait  always!"  Bennett  expos 
tulated.  "I'm  gettin'  to  be  a  old  guy,  and  what 
fighting  I  do  has  got  to  be  done  pretty  quick." 
(He  was  almost  twenty-seven,  which  is  a  green 
old  age  for  a  pork-and-beaner.)  "Couple  more 
years  and  I'm  through." 

"You  might  go  somewhere  else  and  try  your 
luck, ' '  suggested  Peter. 

"A  swell  chance!"  said  Old  Bird  sarcasti 
cally.  "I  ain't  got  no  dough,  I  ain't  got  no 
manager,  I  ain't  got  nothing.  If  I  just  had  a 
manager  now — wit*  money — aw,  what  you 
laughin '  at  ?  Worse  fighters  'n  me  has  had  man 
agers!" 

n 

Then,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  the  manager  with 
money  put  in  an  appearance.  Joe  Terry,  a  local 
sporting  man,  returned  from  a  campaign 
through  the  Northwest,  and  lost  no  time  in  lo 
cating  Old  Bird. 

"I  understand  you're  in  bad  around  here," 
said  Terry. 

[295] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"Worse  than  that,"  said  Old  Bird  dejectedly. 
"Just  because  I  boxed  a  feller  easy  and  lost  a 
decision  on  points,  they  took  my  cue  out  of  the 
game.  By  the  looks  of  things,  I'll  have  to  get 
me  a  sandbag  and  start  sticking  people  up  on 
the  dark  streets." 

"I  know  a  better  way  than  that,"  said  Terry. 
"Perfectly  legitimate,  too.  We  can  cop  all  the 
money  in  Oregon." 

"I  never  knew  they  had  any  money  in  Ore 
gon,"  said  Old  Bird.  "That's  a  farmer  State, 
ain't  it?" 

"That's  why  they've  got  money,"  said  Terry. 
"Every  one  of  those  apple  growers  has  got  an 
automobile  and  a  bank  roll. ' ' 

' '  Well,  go  on ;  go  on !  Spring  it ! "  urged  Old 
Bird  impatiently. 

"There's  a  little  place  up  there  called  Par- 
kerton,"  said  Terry,  "and  every  man  in  the 
town  is  a  sport.  They've  got  a  kid  named  Ar 
thur  Cullen — a  lightweight — and  they  think  he 
can  lick  anybody  in  the  world.  He's  cleaned  all 
the  farmer  boys  in  that  section,  put  out  a  few 
mill  hands,  and  licked  a  few  tramp  fighters  that 
they  brought  in  for  him.  I  saw  him  fight  a  fel 
low  from  Seattle  last  week,  and  those  apple 
tossers  were  offering  three  and  four  to  one  on 
Cullen.  I  took  a  little  of  the  short  end  on  gen 
eral  principles,  but  my  man  fought  like  a  lob 
ster.  The  point  is  this :  Why  can't  you  go  up 
there  under  an  assumed  name  and  go  to  work 
in  a  livery  stable  or  something " 

"Me?  Work?"  There  was  reproach  in  Old 
[296] 


EASY    PICKING 


Bird's  tone.    "What  do  I  know  about  horses?" 

"Well,  of  course  it  wouldn't  have  to  be  a 
stable  job,"  said  Terry  soothingly.  "Anything 
would  do  so  long  as  it's  work.  You  couldn't  go 
up  there  as  Bennett,  the  fighter,  because  the  first 
thing  they'd  do  would  be  to  look  up  your  rec 
ord,  and  then  they  wouldn't  give  odds.  Maybe 
they  wouldn't  even  let  Cullen  fight  you.  If 
you  should  drift  in  there  like  a  bum  out  of 
a  job  and  go  to  work,  they  wouldn't  suspect 
anything,  and  you  could  get  into  a  few  rough- 
and-tumble  fights,  just  to  get  the  town  people  to 
talking  about  you.  They'll  do  the  rest  because 
they  are  always  on  the  lookout  for  somebody 
to  fight  Cullen.  You  show  up  bad  in  your 
training — box  like  a  hayseed,  and  get  knocked 
down  a  few  times — and  they'll  bet  their  heads 
off  at  two  and  three  to  one.  I'll  come  along  and 
grab  every  dollar  in  sight,  you  biff  this  apple 
picker  once  on  the  chin,  and  we  cut  the  money 
even.  How  does  that  sound  to  you?" 

"Fair  enough,"  said  Old  Bird.  "How  much 
money  will  you  bet ! ' ' 

Joe  Terry  unbuttoned  his  vest,  and  brought 
out  a  small,  black  wallet,  from  which  he  extract 
ed  four  one-thousand-dollar  bills.  He  spread 
them  out  on  the  table  and  looked  at  Old  Bird. 

* '  Where  did  you  say  this  place  was  at  ?  "  asked 
the  fighter. 

m 

The  big-town  sports  are  apt  to  sneer  at  their 
brethren  in  the  villages,  but  nowhere  does  the 
[297] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


sporting  spirit  burn  with  whiter,  fiercer  flame 
than  in  the  small  centers  of  population.  The 
little-town  sports  buy  the  annual  record  books, 
and  study  them  with  great  care.  Their  knowl 
edge  lacks  the*personal  element,  but  it  is  aston 
ishingly  complete  from  a  statistical  standpoint. 
They  are  familiar  with  the  performances  of  the 
athletic  idols  of  the  past  and  present ;  they  know 
the  name  of  the  horse  which  holds  the  quarter- 
mile  record;  they  can  tell  offhand  how  many 
rounds  Sullivan  and  Kilrain  fought  for  the 
championship,  and  they  can  reel  off  a  dizzying 
string  of  big-league  batting  averages.  They  are 
not  given  to  betting  blindly,  but  once  convinced 
that  they  have  a ' '  good  thing, ' '  they  produce  the 
bank  roll  and  bet  until  nothing  but  the  woolen 
string  remains. 

Parkerton  was  a  very  sporty  little  town,  as 
the  new  waiter  in  Wade 's  Restaurant  observed. 
He  went  about  his  duties  with  a  supercilious  air, 
but,  though  his  nose  was  slightly  tilted,  his  eyes 
and  ears  were  alert,  and  he  learned  many  things 
of  an  interesting  nature.  His  proud  spirit  re 
belled  against  his  menial  task,  but  he  comforted 
himself  with  the  reflection  that  it  would  not  last 
long.  It  was  hard  work  to  conceal  his  contempt 
for  these  "small-town  jays,"  but  he  did  the  best 
he  could,  and  cast  about  him  for  an  opening. 

On  the  third  day  of  Old  Bird's  martyrdom,  a 
quiet,  clear-eyed  youth  entered  the  restaurant, 
and  ordered  liver  and  bacon.  The  young  man 
wore  a  small  diamond  upon  his  finger,  and  an 
other  one  in  his  tie,  and,  after  he  had  gone, 
[298] 


EASY   PICKING 


Old  Bird  found  a  silver  quarter  upon  the  table. 

"You  know  who  that  was?"  asked  the  cook, 
"with  the  air  of  one  about  to  impart  startling 
information. 

"Nah,"  said  Old  Bird. 

"That  was  Art  Cullen,"  said  the  cook,  paus 
ing  to  note  the  effect. 

"What  of  it?"  asked  Old  Bird  woodenly. 
"What  did  he  ever  do?" 

"You  never  heard  of  Art  Cullen,  the  fighter?" 
demanded  the  cook,  in  amazement. 

"No;  and  nobody  else  ever  did,"  said  Old 
Bird.  "Who  did  he  ever  lick?" 

"He's  licked  everybody  he  ever  fought,"  said 
the  cook.  "Fred  McGilligan,  Johnny  Nash, 
Young  Nelson,  Kid  Dickey,  and  a  whole  raft  of 
lightweights.  Guess  you've  heard  of  Kid  Dickey, 
ain't  you?  He's  from  Portland,  and  a  tough 
boy.  Cullen  put  him  out  in  three  rounds." 

"Why  don't  he  go  and  lick  some  real  fight 
ers?"  said  Old  Bird.  "I  never  had  a  glove  on 
in  my  life,  and  I'll  bet  he  can't  lick  me,  even." 

' '  Huh ! ' '  sneered  the  cook.  ' '  You  wouldn  't  be 
a  mouthful  for  that  boy !  He  'd  just  hit  you  once, 
and  you  wouldn't  know  nothing  for  an  hour." 

' '  Wouldn 't  1 1 "  said  Old  Bird,  with  a  grin.  '  '  I 
can  scrap  a  little  myself. ' ' 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  remarked  the 
cook.  *  *  They  all  think  they  can  fight  until  this 
boy  gets  at  'em,  and  then  they  change  their 
minds.  He's  a  hum-dinger,  I  tell  you!" 

"He's  a  farmer,  that's  what  he  is!"  said  Old 
Bird. 

[299] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"Well,  they're  goin'  to  get  a  good  man  to 
come  up  from  San  Francisco  to  try  him  out," 
persisted  the  cook.  * '  Billy  Gillis,  or  Mike  Bald 
win,  or  some  of  them  good  boys." 

Old  Bird,  who  had  knocked  out  Gillis  in  one 
round  and  Baldwin  in  five,  laughed  scornfully. 

"You  can  laugh  if  you  want  to,"  said  the 
cook;  "but  don't  get  the  idea  that  this  boy  Cul- 
len  ain't  a  fighter.  Jim  Dabney — he  runs  the 
pool  room,  you  know — says  that  Cullen  can  hit 
harder  than  any  lightweight  he  ever  saw,  and 
he's  seen  lots  of  'em.  Jim  used  to  live  in  Den 
ver.  He  ought  to  know. ' ' 

An  indignant  knife-handle  tattoo  summoned 
the  new  waiter  to  the  front  of  the  house  and 
ended  the  conversation,  which  was  just  as  well, 
for  he  had  something  to  think  about.  If  the  lo 
cal  sports  were  planning  another  match  for 
Cullen,  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Old  Bird  had 
not  been  favorably  impressed  with  Terry's  sug 
gestion  that  he  should  take  part  in  a  street  fight 
for  the  sake  of  the  advertising.  He  had  all  the 
seasoned  fighter 's  distaste  for  giving  away  that 
which  he  might  sell.  Besides,  he  believed  he 
knew  a  better  way. 

The  next  day  Cullen,  accompanied  by  three 
friends,  entered  the  restaurant.  Old  Bird  set 
his  chin  at  an  aggressive  angle,  and  sauntered 
over  to  the  table,  fumbling  in  his  pocket  as  he 
went. 

"What  have  you  got  to-day?"  asked  Cullen 
of  the  new  waiter. 

1 '  This ! ' '  said  Old  Bird,  and  tossed  a  twenty- 
[300] 


EASY    PICKING 


five-cent  piece  upon  the  table.  ' '  You  was  in  here 
yesterday  and  left  this  by  your  plate.  If  you 
did  it  by  accident,  all  right;  but  if  you  thought 
you  could  slip  me  a  measly  two-bits  on  the  side, 
you've  got  another  think  coming.  See?  No 
apple  picker  like  you  can  hand  me  anything!" 

Cullen  looked  up  in  some  surprise,  and  his 
friends  stirred  uneasily  in  their  chairs. 

"Why,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,*' 
said  Cullen  quietly.  *  *  I  thought ' ' 

"What  do  I  care  what  you. thought?"  snarled 
Old  Bird.  "Just  because  you've  licked  a  few 
tramps,  you  think  you're  a  big  feller  around 
here,  don't  you?  You.keep  your  two-bit  pieces, 
and  buy  a  new  hat.  You  need  it.  You  a  fighter ! 
I  never  had  a  glove  on  in  my  life,  but  I'll  bet 
I  can  take  you  out  in  the  street  now  and  show 
you  up!" 

Cullen 's  face  grew  red,  more  from  embarrass 
ment  than  anger. 

*  *  Pshaw ! ' '  said  he.  "I  'm  sorry  you  feel  that 
way  about  it.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it. if  I  had 
known — honest  I  wouldn't.  You  oughtn't  to  get 
sore  about  a  little  thing  like  that " 

"What  I  said  goes!"  interrupted  Old  Bird. 
"I  can  lick  you,  bare  knuckle,  with  the  gloves, 
rough-and-tumble — any  old  way.  I'd  just  like 
to  show  you  where  you  get  off!" 

Cullen  looked  at  his  friends,  and  smiled  sheep 
ishly. 

"I  don't  fight  for  fun,"  he  said,  at  length. 
* '  I  quit  that  a  long  time  ago. ' ' 

"Backing  up,  are  you?"  sneered  Old  Bird. 
[301] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


"I  thought  so.  You  don't  look  like  a  game  guy 
to  me ! ' ' 

"Hold  on!"  said  one  of  Cullen 's  friends. 
"There's  a  way  to  settle  this.  If  you  think  you 
can  fight,  Art  here  will  give  you  a  match  and  you 
can  have  it  out  in  the  ring  and  get  some  money 
for  it.  Is  that  all  right,  Art?" 

* '  Sure, ' '  said  Cullen.    * '  Any  time. ' ' 

"You're  on!"  said  Old  Bird  quickly.  "Gim 
me  two  weeks  to  train  in,  and  I'll  knock  the 
swell  head  off  this  guy.  I  got  to  have  that  long 
to  get  used  to  fighting  with  gloves  on." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Cullen.  "Take  as 
long  as  you  want. ' ' 

That  night  there  was  but  one  topic  of  conver 
sation  in  Parkerton.  The  tough  waiter  at  Bob 
Wade 's  place  had  been  looking  for  trouble,  and 
was  about  to  find  it.  The  situation  made  a 
strong  appeal  to  Parkerton 's  sense  of  humor. 

"It  was  rich!"  said  Clay  Eaton,  one  of  the 
restaurant  party.  "This  tough  guy  comes  up 
and  bawls  Art  out  about  a  tip.  Wanted  to  go 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  with  him.  Then 
Frank  Pierson  suggested  making  a  match  of  it, 
and  the  waiter  says  he  '11  have  to  have  two  weeks 
to  get  used  to  fighting  with  gloves  on  his  hands ! 
Can  you  beat  that?  Art's  pretty  mad  at  this 
bird,  and  he's  liable  to  go  at  him  strong.  He's 
never  walloped  a  fellow  as  hard  as  he  could  yet, 
and  what  he  '11  do  to  this  hasher  will  be  plenty ! 
I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  an  acre  of  apple  trees!" 

The  humor  of  the  situation  broadened  and 
deepened  when  "George  Williams" — the  new 
[302] 


EASY    PICKING 


waiter's  name — went  into  active  training.  His 
"road  work"  consisted  of  a  leisurely  two-mile 
stroll,  and  in  the  afternoons,  clad  in  a  bathing 
suit  and  rubber-soled  tennis  shoes,  he  plunged 
about  the  back  room  of  the  town  gymnasium, 
stabbing  the  air  with  awkward  lefts  and  swing 
ing  his  right  ponderously. 

"Say,  what  d'you  call  that  stuff?"  asked  the 
local  sports. 

'  *  Shadow  boxing ! ' '  panted  George  Williams. 
"It  makes  you  clever  and  fast  on  your  feet." 
To  prove  it,  he  gave  an  exhibition  which  would 
have  disgraced  a  bogged  hippopotamus,  and  the 
sports*  laughed  and  winked  behind  their  hands. 

Williams  announced  that  he  would  be  pleased 
to  box  with  volunteers,  and  Dan  Lacey,  a  book 
keeper,  put  on  the  gloves  with  him,  and  almost 
knocked  him  out  in  the  second  round. 

"You  hit  too  hard!"  puffed  Williams,  feel 
ing  his  jaw.  "A  sparring  partner  ain't  sup 
posed  to  try  and  kill  a  man!" 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me  sooner,"  grinned 
Lacey.  *  ^ome  on ;  I  won 't  hit  you  hard  again. ' ' 

"I  got  enough  for  to-day,"  said  Williams; 
and  that  night  it  was  all  over  town  that  Dan 
Lacey  Jiad  made  the  tough  waiter  quit  with  a 
tap  on  the  jaw  that  would  not  have  broken  a 
window-pane. 

The  next  day  a  well-dressed  stranger  arrived 
from  the  south,  and  announced  that  he  was  in 
the  market  for  unimproved  real  estate.  Abe 
Augustine,  who  dealt  in  lands,  showed  the  vis 
itor  several  promising  bits  of  property,  and  al- 
[303] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


most  sold  him  ten  acres  in  an  adjoining  valley. 
Almost,  but  not  quite. 

"What  do  you  do  here  to  amuse  yourselves1?" 
asked  the  stranger,  who  said  his  name  was  Pen- 
field. 

"Going  to  have  a  prize  fight  next  Thursday 
night  at  the  opera  house,"  said  Augustine. 
*  *  You  ought  to  stay  and  see  it.  It  won 't  be  much 
of  a  fight  because  it'll  be  too  one-sided.  We 
got  a  kid  here  that  can  knock  the  socks  off  any 
lightweight  in  the  Northwest." 

' '  You  don 't  say  so ! "  ejaculated  Penfield.  * '  I  'd 
like  to  see  him  work." 

"I'll  take  you  over  to  his  place  this  after 
noon,  ' '  said  Abe  obligingly.  ' '  He  sure  can  step 
some." 

Penfield  watched  Cullen  go  through  his  stunts 
with  an  experienced  eye,  reserving  his  opinion 
until  the  finish. 

"Well,"  said  Abe,  "what  do  you  think  of 
him?  Ain't  he  pretty  nifty  with  his  hands?" 

' '  Too  slow  to  suit  me, ' '  said  Penfield.  ' '  He 's 
wide  open  all  the  time,  and  he  has  to  set  himself 
for  every  punch.  I  don 't  like  him. ' ' 

"I'd  like  to  bet  you  that  he  wins,"  said  Abe, 
with  an  eye  to  business. 

"I  may  take  some  of  that  after  I've  seen  the 
other  man,"  replied  Penfield.  "Almost  any 
body  ought  to  lick  this  Cullen." 

"Bet  you  two  to  one  he  wins !"  said  Abe  sud 
denly. 

"Show  me  the  other  boy  first,"  said  Penfield 
cautiously. 

[304] 


EASY   PICKING 


"I  guess  he's  over  at  the  gymnasium,"  sug 
gested  Abe.  "What  say  we  go  there  now?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Penfield. 

Williams,  despite  his  awkwardness  and  his 
other  failings,  seemed  to  make  quite  an  impres 
sion  on  the  stranger. 

"Now,  that's  my  notion  of  a  fighter!"  said 
Penfield  heartily.  "He  hasn't  had  the  experi 
ence,  of  course,  and  he  isn't  very  clever,  but  he's 
determined,  and  I  like  the  way  he  swings  that 
right  hand.  He'll  stop  Cullen  if  he  hits  him." 

"Bet  you  two  to  one!"  said  Abe. 

"How  much?"  asked  Penfield,  reaching  for 
his  pocketbook. 

That  night  the  news  sped  about  town  that 
there  was  some  easy  money  at  the  Parkerton 
House,  and  there  was  an  immediate  scramble 
to  reach  it  first. 

Penfield  did  not  seem  particularly  anxious, 
but  it  was  possible  to  talk  him  into  backing  the 
short-ender,  and  that  was  all  Parkerton  wanted 
to  know.  It  was  not,  Penfield  explained,  that 
he  regarded  Williams  as  a  good  fighter,  but  that, 
in  his  opinion,  Cullen  was  a  very  bad  one.  Lo 
cal  pride  was  injured  by  this  argument,  and 
avenged  itself  by  piling  up  the  dollars  on  Par 
kerton 's  pride.  Penfield  covered  it  slowly  and 
at  times  with  some  show  of  reluctance. 

"You  fellows  may  know  more  about  a  fighter 
than  I  do, "  he  would  remark,  * '  but  I  think  I  'm 
a  fair  judge,  and  I  can't  see  this  Cullen  at  all. 
He  didn't  show  me  anything." 

"Better  watch  him  Thursday  night,"  sug- 
[305] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


gested  the  local  sports.  "He  may  show  you 
something  then. ' ' 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Penfield.  "  And  don't  you 
overlook  this  boy  Williams.  He  may  be  green, 
but  his  heart  is  in  the  right  place.  He  looks 
like  a  fighter  to  me." 

On  Wednesday  night  Joe  Terry  issued  his 
orders. 

"We've  got  a  barrel  of  money  up,"  said  he, 
"and  I  want  this  Cullen  knocked  out.  On  a 
decision,  we'd  be  sure  to  get  the  worst  of  it. 
And  when  you. crack  him,  let  it  be  on  the  jaw. 
Give  'em  no  chance  to  call  a  foul. ' ' 

'  *  What 's  he  look  like  ? "  growled  Old  Bird.  * '  I 
never  saw  the  sucker  except  in  his  street 
clothes. ' ' 

"He  ain't  a  bad  boy  at  all,"  said  Terry. 
"Boxes  well,  but  he's  awfully  slow.  You  can 
time  him  with  that  right  hand  of  yours  and 
knock  him  into  the  middle  of  next  week." 

"Think  anybody's  onto  us?"  asked  Old  Bird 
anxiously. 

'  *  Not  a  soul ! ' '  chuckled  Terry.  * '  They  think 
they're  putting  one  over  on  me,  and  every  time 
they  look  my  way  they  have  to  laugh.  Oh,  you 
can  trust  these  small-town  boobs  to  trim  you  for 
the  last  cent  you've  got !  Why,  one  of  'em  was 
in  this  afternoon,  wanting  to  bet  two  hundred 
against  my  watch  and  pin !  They  think  I  'm  so 
foolish  that  I  oughtn't  to  be  trusted  with  money. 
That  hash-house  quarrel  of  yours  was  a  clever 
stunt.  They're  all  looking  for  a  grudge  fight." 

"Another  thing,"  grunted  Old  Bird,  "we  bet- 
[3061 


EASY   PICKING 


ter  be  ready  to  vamp  on  that  midnight  train. 
You  never  know  how  these  small-town  guys  will 
take  a  trimming.  As  soon  as  I  cut  loose  they'll 
tumble  that  something  has  been  slipped  over  on 
'em,  and  they  may  turn  nasty." 

' '  I  bought  the  tickets  the  day  I  got  to  town, ' ' 
said  Joe. 

rv 

Every  sport  in  Parkerton  stood  up  and  yelled 
when  Cullen  walked  out  on  the  stage  and  entered 
the  ring.  Percy  Hoskyns,  the  leader  of  the  town 
orchestra,  waved  his  fiddle  bow  and  struck  up 
"Hail  to  the  Chief. " 

When  Old  Bird  appeared,  he  was  greeted  with 
a  generous  cheer  and  a  great  deal  of  laughter. 
He  had  discarded  the  bathing  suit  and  the  tennis 
shoes,  and  was  correctly  garbed  in  ring  attire. 
He  looked  out  over  the  flaring  gas  jets  which 
served  as  footlights,  and  grinned. 

"Do  your  laughin'  early,  you  rubes !"  he 
muttered.  "You  won't  feel  so  fresh  in  a  little 
while." 

Joe  Terry  strolled  upon  the  stage  and  inspect 
ed  Cullen 's  bandages  and  gloves.  He  explained 
that  as  he  was  backing  the  other  man  he  could 
not  afford  to  take  chances.  A  Portland  saloon 
keeper  had  been  imported  to  act  as  referee,  and 
Jim  Dabney,  master  of  ceremonies,  introduced 
him  in  a  ten-minute  speech  which  dragged  in 
the  climate,  the  bumper  apple  crop,  the  increase 
in  real-estate  values,  and  the  glorious  future  of 
Parkerton.  The  true  Western  booster  never 
[307] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


overlooks     an    opportunity    for     advertising. 

"Duke  me,  kid!"  said  Old  Bird  to  Cullen, 
when  the  two  men  appeared  for  instructions. 
Cullen  was  plainly  surprised,  but  he  smiled 
frankly  and  extended  his  glove. 

"No  hard  feelings,"  said  he.  "May  the  best 
man  win ! '  ' 

"That's  the  dope!"  said  Old  Bird. 

When  the  bell  rang,  Old  Bird  danced  out  of 
his  corner  with  the  alacrity  of  a  man  going  to 
work  at  a  favorite  trade.  He  feinted  three  times 
with  his  left,  skipping  in  and  out,  and  then 
lunged  forward  behind  a  straight  jab  aimed  at 
Cullen's  nose.  The  apple  picker  jerked  his 
head  aside  without  moving  his  feet.  Old  Bird's 
left  lead  whistled  between  shoulder  and  ear, 
and  he  floundered,  wide  open  and  helpless,  into 
a  terrific  smash  over  the  heart.  Old  Bird 
clinched,  grunting  with  pain  and  astonishment. 
The  men  who  can  *  *  slip  a  punch  with  the  head ' ' 
are  scarce ;  a  one-armed  man  might  almost  tick 
them  off  on  his  fingers.  Still,  it  might  have 
been  an  accident.  Old  Bird  decided  that  it  could 
not  have  been  design;  no  apple  picker  ever 
learned  Kid  McCoy's  tricks ! 

Again  Old  Bird  circled  cautiously  and  lashed 
out  with  a  straight  left ;  again  Cullen  whipped 
his  face  out  of  the  way,  and  this  time  the  trip 
hammer  right  buried  itself  to  the  wrist  in  the 
soft  roll  of  flesh  just  below  the  rib  line.  It  was 
a  savage  blow,  and  for  an  instant  Old  Bird  was 
very  sick.  He  tried  to  hang  on  for  a  few  sec 
onds,  but  Cullen  drove  him  into  the  open  with 
[308] 


EASY   PICKING 


half  a  dozen  rasping  rights  and  lefts  which 
sounded  like  the  drum  solo  in  a  Sousa  march. 

Old  Bird  hopped  ten  feet  away,  and  prepared 
to  box  at  extreme  long  range.  He  wanted  time 
to  think,  time  to  readjust  his  opinion  of  this 
rube  fighter.  He  had  expected  to  surprise  Cul- 
len ;  Cullen  had  surprised  him.  More  than  that, 
Cullen  had  hit  him  as  hard  as  he  had  ever  been 
hit  in  his  life,  and  Old  Bird  remembered,  with 
regret,  that  he  had  done  very  little  real  train 
ing  for  this  rural  picnic.  He  was  in  no  condi 
tion  for  a  long,  hard  battle.  Infighting  seemed 
to  be  the  rube 's  specialty ;  Old  Bird  decided  to 
continue  the  engagement  at  full-arm  range.  He 
had  no  stomach — or,  rather,  too  much  stomach 
— for  any  more  of  those  short  smashes  below 
the  rib  line.  A  man  in  first-class  condition  could 
not  hope  to  survive  many  of  them;  a  man  un 
trained  and  soft  about  the  midriff  would  find 
them  plain  murder  in  the  first  degree. 

Old  Bird  made  up  his  mind  to  pin  his  hope^oh 
the  big  trump  which  had  taken  so  many  pugilis 
tic  tricks — the  one-way  ticket  to  dreamland.  He 
would  feint  the  farmer  open  to  a  tremendous 
right  swing,  and  knock  him  through  the  ropes 
and  into  the  orchestra  pit. 

Old  Bird  began  to  spar  carefully,  endeavoring 
to  draw  Cullen  into  position.  The  apple  picker's 
eyes  twinkled ;  he  noted  that  Bennett  was  carry 
ing  his  right  hand  low  and  well  back  toward 
the  hip. 

* '  What  you  got  there ! ' '  asked  Cullen.  '  *  Why 
[309] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


don't  you  shoot  your  sixteen-inch  gun  once  and 
let's  see  if  it's  any  good!" 

"Come  on  and  fight!"  growled  Old  Bird. 

"Anything  to  be  obliging!"  said  Cullen,  and 
came  in  like  a  sunbeam. 

Before  Old  Bird  could  get  his  deadly  right 
into  action  something  extremely  solid  bumped 
him  under  the  chin,  and  he  felt  the  soles  of  his 
feet  leave  the  floor.  The  next  point  of  contact 
was  the  back  of  Old  Bird's  head.  He  was  not 
knocked  out,  but  for  an  instant  it  seemed  that 
the  milky  way  had  moved  into  the  Parkerton  Op 
era  House.  It  was  the  third  time  in  his  life  that 
Old  Bird  had  been  knocked  flat  with  a  single 
blow  and  the  first  time  that  it  had  been  done 
with  a  punch  which  he  did  not  know  was  coming. 
The  bell  ended  the  round  at  the  count  of  eight, 
and  Old  Bird  rocked  back  to  his  corner. 

"What  did  he  do  that  with?"  mumbled  the 
veteran,  as  he  nosed  the  green  bottle. 

"A  little  short  left  hook,"  said  Terry.  "It 
didn't  travel  more  than  ten  inches.  For  the 
love  of  Mike,  watch  out  for  this  guy.  He  ain't 
as  soft  as  he  looks." 

"Tell  me  something  I  don't  know,"  muttered 
Old  Bird.  "I  never  even  saw  him  start  that 
last  one.  It  was  a  beaut ! ' ' 

' '  He 's  got  a  bad  body  punch  there, ' '  cautioned 
Terry.  *  *  You  ought  to  stop  those. ' ' 

"You  didn't  see  any  of  'em  get  by  me,  did 
you?"  retorted  Old  Bird.  "Help  me  out  of  the 
chair  now;  I'm  going  to  stall  that  I'm  hurt,  and 
cop  him  with  my  right. '  ' 

[310] 


EASY    PICKING 


The  bell  rang,  and  Terry  fairly  lifted  Old 
Bird  to  his  feet  and  pushed  him  into  the  ring. 
He  did  not  seem  to  want  to  go,  and  the  apple 
growers  shouted  with  laughter  at  the  spectacle 
which  Old  Bird  presented  as  he  wabbled  toward 
the  center  of  the  ring.  His  hands  were  open 
and  swaying  at  his  sides,  his  head  rocked  drunk- 
enly  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  shoes  dragged 
along  the  floor.  It  was  a  trick  which  he  had 
learned  from  the  Old  Master,  who  in  turn  had 
learned  it  from  Bob  Fitzsiinmons.  Cullen,  wait 
ing  for  him  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  dropped 
his  guard  and  looked  appealingly  at  the  ref 
eree.  As  he  did  so,  the  Old  Bird  led  his  big 
trump  and  led  it  from  his  hip.  Out  of  the  cor 
ner  of  his  eye  Cullen  saw  it  coming  and  ducked 
his  head.  A  matter  of  two  inches  saved  him 
from  annihilation.  The  big  trump  would  have 
taken  the  trick  had  it  not  been  for  the  sudden 
downward  movement  of  Cullen 's  head;  as  it 
was  Old  Bird's  glove  caught  him  squarely  on 
the  cheek  and  sent  him  head  over  heels  into  a 
corner  of  the  ring. 

The  Parkerton  sports  came  up  with  a  howl 
of  rage. 

"Foul!    Foul!" 

"What  kind  of  fighting  do  you  call  that?" 
"He  hit  him  when  his  hands  was  down!" 
"Dirty  work!    Eotten!    S-s-s-s!    Bo-o-o-h!" 
The  Portland  saloon  keeper  knew  his  busi 
ness.    He  began  counting  at  once,  walking  to 
ward  Cullen  as  he  did  so.    At  three  that  young 
man  was  sprawling  on  his  back ;  at  four  he  be- 
[311] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


gan  to  collect  his  arms  and  legs;  at  seven  he 
was  waiting,  both  gloves  and  one  knee  on  the 
floor.  The  referee  marked  the  seconds  with  his 
right  arm,  while  with  the  left  he  repulsed  the 
impetuous  charges  of  Old  Bird,  who  was  danc 
ing  about  like  an  angry  fox  terrier,  ready  to 
dash  in  with  the  finishing  blow  the  instant  Cul- 
len  should  come  to  his  feet  At  eight  the  local 
warrior  turned  his  head  toward  his  corner  and 
his  left  eyelid  flickered  perceptibly.  Had  Old 
Bird  seen  this,  perhaps  he  would  not  have 
rushed  in  so  recklessly  as  his  opponent  straight 
ened  from  the  floor ;  perhaps  he  might  have  re- 
remembered  that  there  is  no  copyright  on 
a  "stall." 

Old  Bird  charged  with  his  right  hand  drawn 
back  like  a  scythe,  head  forward  and  chin  jut 
ting  well  out  over  his  chest ;  Cullen  came  from 
the  floor  with  one  bound,  and  a  left  hook  came 
with  him  all  the  way.  It  stopped  under  Old 
Bird's  chin,  a  skyrocket  exploded  in  his  brain, 
.once  more  the  stars  passed  in  swift  review,  and 
then  came  thick,  black  darkness,  impenetrable 
and  enduring. 

Light  and  reason  returned  simultaneously. 
Old  Bird  found  himself  reclining  on  a  sofa  in 
the  star  dressing  room  and  a  mild-faced  old 
gentleman  was  putting  some  bottles  back  into  a 
black  satchel. 

"Feel  better  now,  son?"  asked  the  doctor 
kindly. 

"I    feel    worse!"    mumbled    the    veteran. 
"What's  the  matter  with  my  mouth?" 
[312] 


EASY    PICKING 


"You've  got  four  broken  teeth,"  said  the  doc 
tor;  "but  it  might  have  been  your  neck,  so  you 
can 't  complain. ' ' 

"But  I  had  him  licked!"  protested  Old  Bird. 
"He  was  down,  wasn't  he?  And  I  went  in  to 
clean  him,  and " 

"And  he  hit  you  with  one  that  he  fetched 
from  China!"  snapped  Joe  Terry.  "You're  a 
wise  guy,  you  are!  He  wasn't  hurt  at  all;  you 
copped  him  away  up  on  the  cheek  bone,  and  he 
worked  the  stall  right  back.  Only  he  got  away 
with  his,  and  you  didn't.  If  this  guy  is  a  sucker, 
I  don't  know  where  you  get  your  wise  ones !" 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door,  and  the 
victor  entered,  followed  by  Jim  Dabney,  the 
Portland  referee,  and  as  many  of  the  local 
sports  as  could  find  standing  room.  They  seemed 
very  cheerful. 

"How  are  you,  Bennett?"  asked  Cullen,  offer 
ing  his  hand. 

Old  Bird  stared  at  the  farmer  fighter  with 
open  mouth,  and  Joe  Terry  drew  in  his  breath 
with  a  whistling  sound. 

"Huh?"  gurgled  the  defeated  warrior. 
"What's  that?" 

"Oh,  we  smoked  you  out,"  grinned  Dabney. 
"I  had  my  suspicions  you  was  a  fighter  the 
minute  you  hit  town.  When  you  started  train 
ing  I  wasn't  so  sure,  but  when  your  friend  here 
began  to  bet,  I  thought  there  was  a  nigger  in  the 
woodpile  somewhere.  This  afternoon  a  few  of 
us  boys  began  comparin'  notes  and  countin'  up 
bets,  and  then  we  knew  that  there  was  some- 
[313] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


thing  doing.  I  got  the  files  of  the  Police  Gazette 
for  five  years  up  in  my  place,  and  we  pawed 
through  'em  until  we  found  out  what  we  was 
up  against.  Turned  out  all  right,  though,  and 
I  guess  the  odds  were  about  right,  eh,  boys? 
What  do  you  think  of  our  little  rube  fighter? 
Pretty  good,  ain't  he?" 

11  If  he'll  sign  a  contract  with  me,"  said 
Terry,  "I'll  make  him  the  next  lightweight 
champion;  that's  how  good  I  think  he  is." 

"You're  a  little  bit  late,  friend,"  said  Jim 
Dabney.  "We  may  be  hayseeds  up  here  in 
Parkerton,  but  we  know  a  fighter  when  we  see 
him.  I've  got  this  boy  tied  up  for  ten  years, 
and  as  soon  as  the  apple  crop  is  in  I'm  going  to 
take  him  down  to  San  Francisco  and  get  a 
chance  to  bet  some  money  on  the  short  end  for 
a  change." 

"Apples!"  sniffed  Terry  scornfully.  "I 
wouldn't  monkey  with  all  the  apples  in  the 
world  if  I  had  a  fighter  like  that  on  my  staff!" 

Old  Bird  said  no  more  until  he  was  hoisting 
himself  into  an  upper  berth  on  the  southbound 
train. 

* '  Hey,  Joe ! "  he  whispered. 

Terry  grunted  in  reply. 

"A  feller  told  me  once,"  said  Old  Bird,  "that 
all  the  wise  guys  in  the  cities  came  in  from  the 
small  towns.  He  sure  said  an  armful  then, 
didn't  he?" 


[314] 


FOR  THE  PICTURES 


JOHN  —  < '  GRIZZLY ' '  —  GAVIN,  middle 
weight  champion  of  all  the  world,  and  the 
most  distinguished  knocker-out  of  his  gen 
eration,  squirmed  on  a  chair  in  the  star  dressing 
room  of  the  Imperial  Vaudeville  Theater  and 
tried  to  do  two  things  at  once,  but  with  indif 
ferent  success,  for  Nature  had  designed  him  on 
simple  and  elemental  lines. 

The  champion  was  attempting  to  give  an  in 
terview  to  a  representative  of  the  press — giving 
it  as  a  cow  gives  milk,  by  having  it  wheedled 
out  of  her  in  driblets — and  at  the  same  time  he 
was  endeavoring  to  make  safe  and  cautious 
double-entry  into  a  pair  of  purple  silk  tights — 
quite  an  undertaking  for  a  man  unacquainted 
with  high-browed  reporters  and  unused  to  flesh 
ings  of  any  sort. 

Gavin  did  not  wish  to  offend  the  interviewer, 
who  was  young  enough  to  denounce  himself  as 
a  "special  writer"  and  seemed  sensitive  about 
it;  neither  did  he  wish  to  split  the  tights,  which 
were  new  and  dangerously  thin,  and  the  mighty 
intellect  which  had  dragged  John  Gavin  from 
a  machine  shop  to  the  very  pinnacle  of  fame  was 
[315] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


vibrating  rapidly  between  two  points  of  distrac 
tion.  Those  who  have  never  been  bombarded 
with  personal  questions  while  struggling  with  a 
new  pair  of  purple  silk  tights  can  never  appre 
ciate  the  delicacy  of  the  situation. 

"Er — Mr.  Gavin,'*  said  the  journalist  hope 
fully,  "would  you  mind  telling  the  readers  of 
the  Morning  Messenger  what  you  think  of  the 
theatrical  business  f  I  mean  how  does  the  stage 
appeal  to  you  from  the  standpoint  of  a  pugi 
list?" 

"Rotten!"  growled  the  champion  as  he  care 
fully  eased  a  bulging  calf  into  its  silken  sheath. 
"Rotten!" 

The  interviewer  brightened  perceptibly. 
Here,  he  told  himself,  was  something  worth 
while. 

' '  You  mean,  then, ' '  said  he  eagerly,  * '  that  the 
moral  influence  of  the  theater  is — is " 

"Moral  influence,  hell!"  grunted  Gavin.  "I 
don't  know  nothing  about  moral  influence.  I 
ain't  no  preacher,  and  I  ain't  no  knocker 
either. ' ' 

"But,"  said  the  perplexed  youth,  "you  just 
said  the  stage  was  rotten." 

"Any  business,"  remarked  the  champion,  "is 
rotten  when  you  want  to  be  doing  something 
else.  I'm  a  fighter,  I  am;  and  I'd  rather  step 
four  rounds  with  Cock-eyed  Mahoney  than  make 
a  fool  of  myself  in  front  of  an  audience.  But 
my  manager  signed  a  contract  and  it's  up  to 
me  to  deliver.  Me,  I  think  the  show  business  is 
rotten." 

[316] 


FOE   THE   PICTURES 


"I  see.  Your  criticism  is  based  on  purely 
personal  grounds." 

"  Yen.  I  guess  so.  Write  it  up  any  way  yon 
like.  You'll  do  it  anyhow." 

The  young  man  looked  rather  bewildered,  but 
caught  his  breath  and  tried  a  new  tack. . 

"Mr.  Gavin,"  said  he,  " would  you  mind  tell 
ing  me  why  they  call  you  'Grizzly'?  Is  it  be 
cause  you  fight  like  a  bear?" 

* '  If  I  fought  like  a  bear, ' '  said  the  champion, 
"I  would  have  been  licked  long  ago.  All  a  griz 
zly  can  do  is  to  get  you  into  a  clinch  and  hug  you 
to  death.  That  ain't  fighting." 

The  champion  rose  and  surveyed  his  purple 
legs,  examining  their  reflection  in  the  mirror 
and  nearly  twisting  his  head  off  in  order  to  se 
cure  a  rear  view. 

"Then  why  do  they  call  you  ' Grizzly'?" 

' '  Because  I  'm  so  hairy.  They  hung  that  name 
on  me  out  West,  and  it'll  stick,  I  guess.  That's 
why  I  have  to  wear  these  fool  things.  And  my 
chest — say,  if  I  had  'Welcome'  worked  on  it 
I  could  lay  down  on  my  back  and  pass  for  a  door 
mat."  Again  the  champion  studied  his  reflec 
tion  in  the  glass,  running  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
over  his  silken  thighs.  "They  feel  kind  of 
smooth  and  nice,  at  that,"  said  he,  half  apolo 
getically,  but  with  a  trace  of  pride.  "Cotton 
is  good  enough  for  anybody;  but  silk — well, 
silk  is  class.  You  got  to  admit  it — silk  is  class. 
.  .  .  Anything  else  you  want  to  ask  me  ?" 

"Why,  yes.  Some  of  the  boys  in  the  office 
want  to  know  how  long  it  will  take  you  to  whip 
[317] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


Mr.  Summers.  This  isn't  for  publication,  you 
understand.  I — I  think  they  might  make  some 
bets." 

Grizzly  Gavin  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Yeh.  They  might — if  they  knew.  Listen: 
If  I  knew  the  answer  to  that  question  I'd  win 
myself  wealthy,  snow-balling  the  right  round 
in  the  mutuals.  It's  sure  to  be  a  big  betting 
fight,  and  I  'd  get  rich. ' ' 

'  *  You're  confident  of  beating  him,  of  course  ? ' ' 

Gavin  stopped  grinning  and  his  brows  wrin 
kled  into  an  ugly  scowl. 

1  'Confident?  Say,  as  sure  as  you're  setting 
there,  I'll  tear  his  block  off!  I'll  fix  that  jaw 
of  his  so  he  can't  wag  it  at  no  more  newspaper 
men  in  a  hurry!  I'll  knock  him  kicking  like  a 
shot  rabbit — you  can  bet  your  last  nickel  on  it ! " 

"They  say  that  Mr.  Summers  is  very  scien 
tific." 

"Yeh,"  said  Gavin  with  great  scorn.  "All 
them  fighters  that  can't  stand  a  good  wallop, 
they  have  to  be  clever.  They  run,  and  they 
duck,  and  they  sidestep,  and  they  poke  at  you 
with  a  straight  left  that  wouldn't  dent  a  derby 
hat,  but  when  it  comes  to  real  fighting — huh, 
they  ain't  there!" 

"I  gather,  then,  that  you  haven't  a  very  high 
opinion  of  Mr.  Summers." 

"Don't  gather  the  pot  till  all  the  chips  is  in. 
Swif ty  Summers  is  no  soft  proposition,  and  no 
push-over.  He's  licked  some  tough  men.  He's 
fast  on  his  feet,  he's  clever,  and  he's  tricky  as 
the  devil.  And  when  he  gets  an  opening  for  that 
[318] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


right  hand  there  ain't  no  cream  puff  in  the 
glove  when  it  comes  across.  There's  a  kick  in 
it — a  good  kick.  He's  no  cinch,  but  I'll  tear 
into  him  so  hard  that  he'll  never  get  a  chance 
to  set  himself  and  land  with  his  right.  I'll  run 
him  ragged,  and  if  I  can  stop  him  in  the  first 
round  I'll  do  it.  There's  one  thing  you  can 
pay  about  me  if  you  want  to — I  never  yet  let  a 
man  stay  a  minute  longer  than  I  could  help. 
I  don't  believe  in  stalling  to  give  the  crowd  a 
run  for  its  money.  I'm  out  to  win,  and  win 
quick.  That's  why  they  come  to  see  me  fight. 
I'll  be  right  on  top  of  Summers  the  minute  that 
bell  rings. ' ' 

' '  May  I  quote  you  as  saying  that  1 ' ' 

"Sure,  quote  me!  Why  not?  Everybody 
knows  that's  my  style  of  fighting.  I  go  to  'em 
and  trade  slams  till  they  drop.  That's  how  I 
got  my  title,  and  by  the  way,  the  championship 
belt  is  in  the  trunk  there.  It  cost  a  thousand 
bucks — all  solid  gold  where  it  ain't  silk  ribbon, 
and  that  diamond  ain't  no  phony  stone,  either. 
Want  to  see  it?" 

"I'd  be  delighted,"  murmured  the  reporter. 
"I  never  saw  a  championship  belt  before.  I — 
I  am  not  attached  to  the  sporting  department. 
I  write  special  articles " 

' '  Yeh, ' '  said  Gavin  dryly  as  he  bent  over  the 
trunk.  "I  kind  of  thought  you  wasn't  no  sport 
ing  editor  when  you  first  come  in.  ...  Now, 
this  belt  was  presented  to  me  by — oh,  well, 
read  for  yourself  what  it  says.  Pretty  good 
from  the  guys  in  a  man's  home  town,  eh?" 
[319] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


II 

The  American  prize  ring  has  produced  hun 
dreds  of  sports,  four  or  five  genuine  sportsmen 
and  a  genius  or  two.  Swifty  Summers,  chris 
tened  Alexander  Kittredge  Duncan,  was  neither 
a  sport  nor  a  sportsman,  but  he  came  very  close 
to  the  last  classification.  The  proof  is  in  the 
fact  that  though  he  flourished  more  than  a  few 
years  ago  his  record  remains  green — if  not 
fragrant — in  the  memories  of  those  who  have 
followed  the  ring  and  ringsters  for  a  decade 
or  so. 

Summers  was  the  first  real  captain  of  the 
padded-mitt  industry;  the  first  pugilist  to  rec 
ognize  the  dollar-and-cent  possibilities  of  the 
profession  of  fisticuffs.  We  have  had  many 
"price  fighters"  since  his  day,  but  not  one  of 
them  could  have  taught  Summers  anything  new 
in  the  use  of  the  double  or  triple  cross,  or  the 
knack  of  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  an  op 
ponent  while  making  it  seem  perfectly  fair  to 
a  referee,  or  the  crowning  art  of  scooping  in 
the  loosely  held  dollar  of  commerce.  From  time 
to  time  a  great  many  men  thought  they  were 
"managing"  Summers'  business  affairs,  but 
when  the  loot  was  divided  they  discovered  that 
they  had  been  in  error.  There  was  never  a 
"manager's  cut." 

Starting  with  a  fair  education,  Summers  read 

books  and  newspapers  and  made  a  careful  study 

of  men.    He  could  talk  easily  and  entertainingly 

on  any  topic  of  general  interest,  and  with  such 

[320] 


FOR   THE    PICTURES 


choice  of  vernacular  as  to  be  understood  by  a 
bank  president  or  a  safe  blower.  He  looked  like 
a  gentleman,  there  were  times  when  he  acted 
like  one,  and  he  dressed  with  the  quiet  but  ele 
gant  taste  of  a  pork  packer's  grandson. 

Lady  interviewers  listened  to  his  soft,  well- 
modulated  voice  and  went  away  to  rave  inkily 
about  his  intelligent  brown  eyes,  his  perfect 
poise  and  the  charm  of  his  personality.  Un 
questionably  Swifty  Summers  was  a  very 
smooth  article.  When  on  dress  parade  he  might 
have  borrowed  a  graduating  class  from  the 
president  of  a  female  seminary;  but  stripped 
down  to  his  warped  and  twisted  soul  he  was 
as  unscrupulous  as  a  scorpion,  and  fully  as  dan 
gerous.  There  was  not  a  trick  in  his  trade  which 
he  did  not  know  and  use,  and  sometimes  he  in 
vented  new  ones,  as  was  the  case  in  his  first 
important  ring  battle. 

Said  Cock-eyed  Mahoney,  the  Fighting  Steve 
dore,  to  his  chief  second:  "He's  a  nice-spoken 
lad,  this  Summers,  an'  I  kind  o'  hate  to  muss'm 
up.  When  we  was  in  that  first  clinch  he  whis 
pers  to  me  how  his  father  is  in  the  gallery,  and 
asks  me  not  to  show'm  up  too  bad  before  the 
old  man.  I  think  I'll  box  easy  for  a  few  rounds, 
then  go  git  'm. ' ' 

'  *  Nix ! ' '  advised  the  chief  second.  ' '  You  ain't 
no  boxer,  and  he  is.  Tear  into  him!'* 

"No-o,"  said  Mahoney;  "he  ast  me  like  a  gen 
tleman,  and  I'll  let'm  stay  a  while — on  account 
of  his  old  man.  I'll  go  easy  at  first." 

While  Mahoney  was  going  easy  he  bumpea 
[321] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


into  a  right  hook  coming  hard.  When  he  recov 
ered  consciousness  he  was  a  sadder,  madder 
man,  but  not  nearly  so  mad  as  he  was  later 
when  he  ascertained  that  Summers  was  an  or 
phan. 

Now  Grizzly  Gavin  and  Mahoney  were  friends 
in  spite  of  three  hard  battles,  and  Gavin  knew 
the  story  about  Swifty's  old  man.  He  had 
heard  other  stories  as  well,  and  was  resolved 
not  to  listen  to  any  proposition  from  Summers, 
in  the  ring  or  out  of  it;  but  it  often  happens 
that  the  man  who  will  not  listen  to  conversation 
will  lend  both  ears  to  the  soothing  rustle  of 
greenbacks.  Four  days  before  the  battle  for  the 
middleweight  championship  of  the  world  Joe 
Wells  entered  Gavin's  training  quarters  with  a 
message  from  the  enemy.  Wells  was  Gavin's 
manager,  caring  no  more  for  money  than  a 
Circassian  beauty  does  for  her  hair. 

"Summers  wants  to  see  us  to-night/'  said 
Wells. 

"Leave  him  tell  his  troubles  to  a  policeman!" 
growled  Gavin,  who  was  irritable.  Most  men 
are  irritable  after  a  long  siege  of  training. 

"He's  got  some  proposition  about  making 
a  barrel  of  dough,"  continued  Wells.  "He 
wouldn't  tell  me  what  it  is,  but  he  says  it's  a 
cinch.  He  wants  to  talk  it  over  with  you  and 
see  what  you  think  about  it." 

"Huh!  Figuring  on  some  kind  of  a  frame, 
eh?" 

' '  He  says  not.  Says  the  fight  has  got  to  be  on 
[322] 


FOE   THE   PICTUEES 


the  level,  and  here's  the  angle  I  don't  get. 
Here 's  his  message : '  You  tell  that  big  stiff  of  a 
Gavin  that  he  can  clean  up  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars  on  the  side — fifty  thousand  without  betting 
a  cent  or  posting  a  nickel — and  he'll  get  it  no 
matter  which  one  of  us  wins.'  " 

"  'No  matter  which  one  of  us  wins!'  "  re 
peated  Gavin.  "I  don't  get  the  angle  either. 
Fifty  thousand  dollars — and  no  betting  to  be 
done.  I  don't  get  it." 

"He  says  ill  won't  take  five  minutes  to  ex 
plain  the  whole  business,  and  then  you  can  take 
it  or  leave  it.  It  wouldn't  do  any  harm  to 
listen,  John." 

"Yeh,  but  suppose  we're  seen  talking  to 
gether.  Right  away  the  papers  would  yell  that 
we  were  framing  the  fight.  You  know,  and  I 
know,  that  we  wouldn't  frame  nothing;  but 
Summers  would  frame  his  own  brother.  It 
would  look  bad." 

"He  thought  of  that.  He  said  that  at  ten 
o  'clock  sharp  he  'd  drive  by  here  in  a  closed  hack 
and  pick  us  up  down  at  the  railroad  crossing." 

' '  And  the  hack  driver  would  spill  it,  sure ! ' ' 

' '  Now  listen,  John.  You  ought  to  know  that 
a  hack  driver  never  spills  nothing.  He's  wise. 
It's  part  of  his  trade  to  keep  his  mouth  shut." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  champion.  "I  can't 
take  chances  on  any  newspaper  talk." 

"No,"  said  Wells,  "I  guess  you're  right, 
John.  .  .  .  Fifty  thousand  bucks,  whether  you 
win  or  whether  you  lose.  ...  It  sounds  like  new 
stuff." 

[323] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


''Look here,"  said  Gavin  suddenly,  ''if  you're 
so  crazy  to  know  about  it  why  not  meet  the 
hack  and  tell  Summers  to  get  out.  The  hack  can 
drive  on,  and  me  and  you  and  him  will  have  a 
chat — down  the  railroad  track  where  it's  quiet." 

' '  Keno ! ' '  exclaimed  the  manager.  ' '  Might  as 
well  find  out  what  he 's  got,  eh  f " 

"Yeh,"  grunted  Gavin.  "And  if  he  makes 
any  funny  cracks  at  me  I'll  just  poke  him  one 
for  luck.  You  tell  him  so." 


At  five  minutes  after  ten  the  champion  eased 
himself  out  of  the  back  door  of  his  training 
quarters,  traversed  an  alley,  skulked  round  two 
corners  and  arrived  at  the  railroad  crossing. 
The  night  was  quite  dark,  but  Gavin  had  no 
trouble  in  recognizing  Summers,  who  stepped 
from  underneath  a  tree  to  greet  him.  The  chal 
lenger  was  far  too  clever  to  annoy  Gavin  with 
a  sartorial  display;  he  wore  a  thick  sweater, 
dark  trousers,  rubber-soled  shoes  and  a  cap. 
His  conversation  was  also  suited  to  the  occa 
sion. 

"How 're  you,  champ?    You  look  pretty  fit." 

"Never  you  worry  about  me,"  snapped  Gavin. 
"I'm  fit  enough  to  knock  your  head  off." 

Summers  laughed. 

"When  you  worked  in  the  machine  shop," 
said  he,  "you  quit  when  the  whistle  blew.  You 
didn't  carry  your  tools  with  you  all  the  time. 
Let 's  not  quarrel  till  we  get  paid  for  it. "  ; 

Gavin  grunted  and  led  the  way  down  the 
railroad  track,  followed  by  Summers  and  Joe 
[324] 


FOE   THE   PICTURES 


Wells.  When  he  had  gone  two  hundred  yards 
he  faced  about  suddenly. 

1 '  Now  talk, ' '  said  he,  *  *  and  talk  quick.  What 
have  you  got  f ' ' 

"The  softest  thing  in  the  world,"  replied 
Summers.  "I've  got  a  line  on  a  man  who  can 
take  moving  pictures  of  this  fight." 

"Moving  pictures?"  asked  Gavin  stupidly. 

While  it  may  seem  incredible  to  the  young 
sters,  accustomed  to  a  motion-picture  theater  on 
every  downtown  block,  there  was  a  time,  and  not 
so  very  long  ago,  when  the  amazing  future  oi 
a  giant  industry  was  safely  locked  inside  a  few 
strange-looking  cameras ;  and  even  the  men  who 
carried  them  had  but  a  faint  conception  of  their 
commercial  and  artistic  possibilities.  Most  of 
those  men  are  now  millionaires  many  times 
over. 

1 1  Moving  pictures  1 ' '  repeated  Gavin  again. 

"That's  it.  You  remember  they  took  moving 
pictures  of  the  Carson  fight?" 

1 '  Yeh, ' '  said  Gavin,  * '  I  heard  about  it. ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Summers,  "they've  learned  a 
lot  since  then.  This  fellow — his  name's  Isaacs, 
and  his  cousin  controls  a  string  of  theaters  all 
over  the  country — tells  me  he's  prepared  to 
handle  the  picture  end  without  our  putting  up 
a  nickel.  He  says  if  the  fight  is  a  good  one  he 
can  guarantee  that  our  bit  won't  be  less  than  a 
hundred  thousand,  cold.  That's  on  a  percent 
age  basis,  of  course.  The  fight  club  might  have 
to  be  cut  in  on  a  piece  of  the  dough,  but  the 
big  chunk  splits  three  ways — just  you  and  me 
[325] 


TAKING  THE  COUNT 


and  Isaacs.    How  does  that  sound  to  you?" 

"Seasonable,"  chirped  Joe  Wells.  "They 
made  a  barrel  of  dough  out  of  the  Carson  pic 
tures — I  know  that." 

"And  these  pictures  will  beat  the  Carson  pic 
tures  all  hollow,"  said  Summers.  "They've 
made  improvements  in  the  camera. ' ' 

"Yeh,"  said  Gavin  shrewdly,  "it  listens  fine; 
but  what  does  this  here  Isaacs  mean  when  he 
says  *  if  it's  a  good  fight ' ! " 

"Why,"  smiled  Summers,  "a  good  fight  from 
a  picture  standpoint.  Lots  of  action " 

"There'll  be  action  enough,"  growled  Gavin. 
"There's  always  action  when  I  fight." 

Summers  proceeded,  calmly  ignoring  the  in 
terruption  : 

"Action,  and  it'll  have  to  last  long  enough  so 
the  film '11.  be  worth  charging  a  dollar  to  see. 
Now,  for  instance,  if  one  of  us  should  be 
dropped  cold  in  the  first  round  the  pictures* 
wouldn't  draw — the  show  would  be  too  short, 
understand!" 

"'You  bet  I  understand,"  sneered  the  cham 
pion.  *  *  Come  on,  Joe.  We  might  have  known 
this  crook  would  spring  something  like  that.  I 
won't  frame  for  nobody,  dough  or  no  dough!" 

' '  Just  a  minute ! ' '  pleaded  Summers.  ' '  That 
'dough  or  no  dough'  stuff  sounds  great,  but  it's 
foolishness.  You  ain  't  such  a  money  getter  that 
you  can  afford  to  pass  up  fifty  thousand  bucks. 
Mike  McCue  had  the  title  for  three  years  be 
fore  you  licked  him.  Where's  Mike  now? 
Working  in  a  lumber  yard  in  Sacramento !  Mike 

[326] 


FOB   THE   PICTURES 


was  a  spender  when  he  had  it;  you're  blowing 
yours  now.  Don 't  be  a  fool,  Gavin !  Have  you 
got  fifty  thousand  salted  down  anywhere  ?  Have 
you  got  twenty-five?  Have  you  got  enough  to 
live  soft  the  rest  of  your  life?  You  bet  you 
haven 't — and  neither  have  I !  Here 's  fifty  thou 
sand  for  you  and  fifty  thousand  for  me ;  and  the 
beauty  of  it  is  we  don't  have  to  do  anything 
wrong  to  get  it.  We  can  box  a  nice  exhibition 
for  a  few  rounds  and  then  cut  loose  in  earnest, 
and  they'll  think  we've  only  been  feeling  each 
other  out.  Fifty  thousand  bucks,  as  sure  as 
death  and  taxes !  ...  Do  you  want  to  go  back 
to  the  machine  shop  when  you're  through  fight 
ing?" 

"No-o,"  said  Gavin,  who  had  been  thinking 
of  Mike  McCue  sweating  in  the  lumber  yard  at 
three  dollars  a  day.  *  *  No-o,  but  if  I  fall  for  this 
what '11  keep  you  from  trying  to  slip  one  over  on 
me?" 

Summers  turned  to  Wells  with  a  gesture  of 
disgust. 

'  *  No  wonder  he  needs  a  smart  business  mana 
ger  ! ' '  complained  the  challenger.  ' ;  What  will  I 
get  if  I  win  this  fight?  Five  or  six  thousand 
dollars  at  the  outside;  and  for  that  I'd  toss 
away  a  fortune ! ' '  He  whirled  and  confronted 
the  champion.  "Ain't  we  both  interested  in  the 
pictures?  Use  your  head,  Gavin,  use  your 
head!" 

"Yeh,"  retorted  Gavin,  "it's  my  head  that 
tells  me  your  word  ain't  good  for  a  nickel ! ' ' 

"So  that 's  it  ? "  cried  Summers  angrily.  ' '  My 
[327] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


word  ain't  good,  eh?  Well,  I'll  make  it  good 
with  the  fairest  proposition  you  ever  listened 
to!"  He  fumbled  in  a  hip  pocket,  brought  out 
a  leather  bill  fold  and  opened  it.  ''You  don't 
trust  me,  Gavin,  but  I'm  going  to  trust  you. 
Here's  a  thousand-dollar  note — oh,  strike  a 
match  and  look  at  it!  It  ain't  Confederate 
money !  A  thousand-dollar  note — and  it 's  yours 
if  I  try  to  slip  anything  over  on  you.  Put  it 
in  your  pocket,  and  if  I  don't  live  up  to  any 
agreement  we  might  make  you  can  keep  it.  And 
you're  to  be  the  judge.  I'll  leave  it  to  you  when 
the  fight  is  over.  Is  that  fair  or  not?" 

John  Gavin  stood  with  head  lowered,  twisting 
;the  bit  of  paper  in  his  fingers.  The  silence 
lengthened  until  it  became  almost  painful.  He 
was  the  middleweight  champion  of  the  world, 
but  never  before  had  he  held  a  thousand-dollar 
note  in  his  hands. 

"  Where  is  this  Isaacs?"  he  asked  at  last  with 
out  looking  up.  "I — I  guess  Joe  ought  to  have 
a  talk  with  him." 

"He'll  be  at  the  Occidental  Hotel  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  Summers.  "All  he  wants  is  a 
promise  that  the  fight '11  last  at  least  four 
rounds.  It's  a  straight  business  proposition 
with  him.  He  can't  go  to  a  lot  of  expense  to 
take  some  pictures  that  won't  draw." 

Gavin  tucked  the  note  in  his  fob  pocket. 

"It's  a  go,"  said  he  slowly,  "and  I'll  hold 
this  piece  of  dough  as  a  forfeit.  We  '11  box  four 
rounds  for  the  pictures,  but — watch  out  for 
yourself  in  the  fifth ! ' ' 

[328] 


FOR   THE   PICTUEES 


1 ' The  same  to  you ! ' '  grinned  Summers.  "It's 
a  real  old  knock-down-and-drag-out  after  the 
fourth  round — and  may  the  best  man  win!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Gavin  took  it. 

"That'll  be  me,"  said  the  champion.  "Yeh, 
I'll  shake  on  it  I" 

m 

A  battle  for  a  world's  championship  is 
hedged  about  with  a  tremendous  amount  of 
pomp  and  circumstance.  The  dignified  pre 
liminaries  have  changed  very  little  in  twenty 
years.  The  great  and  the  near-great  must 
be  introduced  to  the  impatient  multitude,  and 
so  must  every  tin-eared,  dent-nosed,  light- 
weighted  gladiator  wishing  to  "challench  d' 
winner."  A  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  and  on 
the  day  of  a  championship  event  the  lowly  pork- 
and-beaner  may  grasp  the  hand  which  grasps  a 
title. 

The  gloves  must  be  examined  by  the  referee, 
by  the  principals,  by  the  chief  seconds  and  train 
ers,  by  the  towel-swingers  and  bottle-holders 
and  all  others  considering  themselves  interested. 
Photographs  must  be  taken  showing  champion 
and  challenger  crouched  and  scowling  at  each 
other,  the  referee  posed  in  the  exact  center,  try 
ing  hard  to  look  like  the  great  man  he  feels 
himself  to  be.  These  things,  and  many  others, 
always  happen  when  a  championship  is  in  the 
balance. 

John  Gavin  sat  in  his  corner,  grim  and  silent, 
wearing  his  professional  face.  Preliminaries 
[329] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


always  annoyed  the  champion.  While  he  waited 
for  the  clearing  of  the  ring  his  eyes  wandered 
to  the  pine  platform  where  the  motion-picture 
camera  was  located.  It  was  the  first  one  he  had' 
ever  seen,  and  Gavin  studied  it  curiously.  Out 
of  that  insignificant  box  was  to  come  the  money 
which  should  erase  the  machine  shop  from  his 
future  calculations — "  fifty  thousand  sure,  may 
be  seventy-five,"  Isaacs  had  told  Joe  Wells. 
Gavin  found  himself  pitying  Mike  McCue,  whose 
championship  had  vanished  and  left  no  lucra 
tive  film  record  behind ;  and  with  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  uneasiness  he  remembered  that  many  of 
his  friends  were  betting  on  him  to  win  inside 
of  four  rounds.  He  knew  that  by  abandoning 
his  usual  thunderbolt  style  of  attack  he  was  be 
traying  a  public  confidence,  but,  as  Joe  Wells 
had  pointed  out,  the  gamblers  wouldn't  give  him 
a  cent  of  their  winnings,  and  a  man  had  a  right 
to  feather  his  nest  deep  and  soft  while  feathers 
were  flying. 

In  the  opposite  corner  sat  the  challenger, 
noticeably  pale  and  evidently  nervous,  but  nod 
ding  and  smiling  in  response  to  the  shrill  greet 
ings  of  friends  and  backers.  It  is  only  the  thick- 
skulled,  unimaginative,  old-style  type  of  bruiser, 
fighting  always  with  his  hands  and  never  with 
his  head,  who  endures  the  final  agony  of  wait 
ing  without  feeling  the  strain.  Tiny  beads  of 
sweat  dampened  Summers '  forehead ;  his  hands 
were  in  constant  motion;  his  feet  shuffled  over 
the  canvas.  Not  once  did  he  glance  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  motion-picture  camera. 
[330] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


'  *  Look  at  him ! ' '  said  Wells  to  Gavin. '  *  Scared 
stiff,  and  spitting  cotton ! ' ' 

"Don't  fool  yourself!"  granted  the  cham 
pion.  "I  seen  him  in  three  fights,  and  he  al 
ways  looks  like  he's  licked  before  he  starts. 
He's  cool  enough  when  he  gets  going." 

The  great  moment  arrived  at  last.  The  men, 
strippedfto  trunks  and  shoes,  stood  in  their  cor 
ners  while  the  announcer  bawled  his  way 
through  the  time-honored  formula.  Gavin,  hairy 
and  broad-shouldered  as  a  gorilla,  the  true  type 
of  fighting  man,  bulked  large  when  compared 
with  his  slender,  flat-muscled  opponent.  High 
on  the  pine  platform  a  sleek,  oily,  full-jeweled 
person  began  turning  a  crank,  and  a  second 
later  the  gong  cut  through  the  tense  silence. 

Gavin  shuffled  rapidly  to  the  center,  head 
down  and  right  hand  poised  as  if  to  annihilate 
his  opponent  with  one  mighty  swing.  Summers 
met  him  and  immediately  began  dancing  in  and 
out,  feinting  with  light  lefts.  Gavin  rushed, 
there  was  a  flurry  of  smothered  blows  and  they 
clinched.  Summers '  lips  did  not  move,  but  his 
head  was  on  Gavin's  shoulder  and  the  champion 
caught  the  message,  low  and  reassuring. 

' '  Make  it  look  good,  champ !  Four  rounds — 
for  the  pictures.  You  rush  me  and  I'll  block." 

Gavin  backed  out  of  the  clinch  and  rushed, 
his  guard  held  low.  As  he  plunged  in,  ready  to 
swing,  Summers  took  one  lightning  step  for 
ward  and  to  the  left,  and  as  he  did  so  he  whipped 
his  right  fist  across,  backed  up  by  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  of  bone,  muscle  and  sinew. 
[331] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


Gavin  saw  the  blow  coming,  and  in  that  as 
tounded  fraction  of  an  instant  he  realized  that 
he  had  been  tricked  into  leaving  his  jaw  wide 
open  to  the  same  vicious  swinging  hook  that  had 
finished  poor,  generous  Mahoney.  He  saw  it 
coming,  and  that  was  all.  Before  he  could  duck 
his  head  or  raise  his  shoulder  Summers'  famous 
knockout  punch  crashed  home  on  the  point  of 
his  chin,  and  Gavin  dropped  like  a  log,  face 
down  on  the  canvas. 

There  followed  an  interval  of  blackness  and 
oblivion,  and  then  the  prostrate  gladiator  be 
came  aware  of  a  terrific  volume  of  sound  beat 
ing  in  on  him  from  four  sides  of  the  ring — the 
wild  hysterical  yelling  of  men  who  see  a  cham 
pionship  changing  hands.  A  new  note  struck 
in,  clear  and  sharp,  very  close  to  Gavin's  ear: 

"Eight!" 

Then  Gavin  knew  where  he  was  and  remem 
bered  what  had  happened  to  him.  He  struggled 
to  his  knees,  but  the  sunlit  arena  swung  in  dizzy 
ing  circles  before  his  glazed  eyes  and  there  was 
no  strength  in  him  anywhere — nothing  but 
weakness  and  a  sickening  sensation  of  nausea. 
He  knew  that  he  must  be  on  his  feet  inside  of 
two  seconds,  but  his  numbed  brain  could  not 
transmit  its  commands  to  the  sprawling  limbs. 
Gavin  dropped  forward,  supporting  most  of  his 
weight  on  his  hands,  and  in  this  position  he 
heard  the  count  reach  nine. 

Had  his  very  life  depended  on  his  getting  to 
his  feet  he  could  not  have  tried  harder,  but  the 
paralyzing  effect  of  that  treacherous  blow  was 

[332] 


FOR   THE   PICTUKES 


not  to  be  thrown  off  by  a  sheer  effort  of  the  will. 
If  Gavin  had  succeeded  in  rising  he  would  have 
been  an  open  target  before  as  merciless  a  fighter 
as  ever  lived,  but  the  champion  did  not  think  of 
this.  He  only  knew  that  he  must  be  on  his  feet 
before  the  count  reached  ten.  .  .  .  Now  if  he 
could  just  get  that  right  knee  off  the  canvas. 

A  hand  slapped  him  smartly  on  the  shoulder 
and  three  words  came  to  him : ' '  Ten — and  out ! ' ' 

The  fight  was  over;  and  Gavin  had  sold  the 
championship  of  the  world  for  a  thousand-dol 
lar  note,  which  was  good,  and  the  word  of  a  man 
whose  word  he  had  said  was  not  good.  He  col 
lapsed  on  his  face  and  Summers  picked  him  up 
and  carried  him  to  his  corner. 

The  new  champion  looked  down  through  the 
ropes  at  a  white,  wide-eyed  young  man  who 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  say  something.  It  was 
Joe  Wells,  stunned  by  the  sudden  catastrophe  to 
his  own  personal  fortunes.  As  Summers  placed 
the  defeated  fighter  on  his  stool  Gavin's  eyes 
opened  and  he  looked  up  at  the  man  who  had 
tricked  him  out  of  his  title. 

"Oh,  you  dog!    You  dog!"  muttered  Gavin. 

Then  Summers  did  a  very  clever  thing.  He 
put  both  arms  round  Gavin's  neck  and  bent 
close  over  him.  Those  who  were  in  a  position 
to  see  the  little  tableau  thought  the  winner  was 
whispering  words  of  comfort  to  the  loser; 
certainly  the  pitying  smile  on  Summers'  face 
seemed  to  indicate  something  of  the  sort. 

But  this  is  what  he  was  saying:  "If  you 
squeal,  you  big  hairy  stiff,  this  crowd '11  hang 
[333] 


TAKING  THE   COUNT 


you,  and  your  manager  too!  If  you  want  to 
get  out  of  this  place  alive  you'll  keep  your  trap 
shut!" 

Even  in  his  shaken  and  befuddled  condition 
John  Gavin  realized  that  the  advice  was  sound. 
In  attempting  to  fool  the  public  he  himself  had 
been  fooled,  and  dared  not  lift  unclean  hands 
against  his  partner  in  crime.  Summers  had 
played  it  very  safe. 

High  on  the  pine  platform,  black  against  the 
westering  sun,  the  sleek  and  oily  Mr.  Isaacs 
continued  to  turn  the  crank  of  the  motion-pic 
ture  camera ;  and  as  he  cranked  he  smiled. 

Perhaps  he  smiled  because  his  pockets  were 
full  of  winning  tickets;  perhaps  he  smiled  be 
cause  the  film  magazine  of  the  camera  was 
empty — had  been  empty  all  day.  Mr.  Isaacs 
was  not  a  photographer ;  he  was  a  cross  between 
a  confidence  man  and  a  sure-thing  gambler.  He 
had  taken  chances  from  time  to  time,  but  he  had 
never  taken  so  much  as  a  snapshot  in  all  his 
life. 

rv 

The  San  Francisco  that  used  to  be  was  the 
winter  Mecca  of  American  sports  and  sporting 
men.  There  is  a  new  San  Francisco  now,  keep 
ing  open  house  for  all  the  world  and  making  the 
stranger  feel  his  welcome  as  he  feels  it  nowhere 
else,  but  the  race  tracks,  the  wide-open  pool 
rooms,  the  gambling  houses  and  the  great 
world's  championship  battles  are  things  of  the 
past.  They  have  vanished  as  completely  as  the 
[334] 


FOB  THE   PICTUKES 


deep-sea-going  hacks,  the  cable  cars  that  used 
to  trundle  up  Market  Street,  and  the  wooden 
buildings  that  once  lined  that  great  thorough 
fare. 

The  good  old  days  may  have  been  bad  old 
days — shockingly  bad  when  judged  by  the  strict, 
Middle-Western  standard  of  morality — but 
many  a  grizzled  San  Franciscan  mentions  them 
with  a  faint  sigh  of  genuine  regret.  There 
was  always  something  doing  in  old  San  Fran 
cisco,  especially  in  the  gay  winter  season,  when 
the  ponies  were  running  and  the  town  swarmed 
with  turf  followers. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  Swifty  Summers 
pointed  his  keen  nose  in  the  direction  of  the 
Golden  Gate?  The  second  year  of  his  cham 
pionship  had  been  kind  to  him.  He  had  de 
fended  his  title  three  times  without  even  having 
his  hair  mussed  and  had  completed  a  successful 
theatrical  tour.  All  his  pockets  were  bulging 
with  unspent  money,  and  well  he  knew  what 
city  made  the  highest  bid  for  men  of  his  kidney. 
He  started  for  San  Francisco,  fully  intending 
to  jostle  the  bookmakers  into  the  bread  line. 

It  often  happens  that  the  man  who  handles 
his  own  crooked  game  wisely  proves  himself  a 
fool  when  he  attempts  to  beat  the  crooked  game 
owned  and  backed  by  the  other  fellow.  Sum 
mers,  a  fox  in  the  roped  arena,  was  a  goose  in 
the  betting  ring.  In  the  simple  but  expressive 
language  of  the  track,  the  champion  was  a 
sucker  for  the  horses. 

Intent  only  on  making  a  killing  and  confident 
[335] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


that  his  exclusive  inside  information  would 
cause  great  financial  distress  on  Bookmakers' 
Bow,  Summers  handed  over  to  the  block  men 
the  larger  portion  of  the  money  that  he  had 
pried  out  of  the  effete  East.  The  killing  did 
not  materialize  and  he  then  plunged  wildly  to 
recoup.  Five  as  good-as-guaranteed  tips  went 
wrong  one  after  the  other,  and  the  champion 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  must  return  to  his 
own  game. 

Indolent  by  nature,  Summers  had  promised 
himself  a  winter  of  soft  living  and  easy  money. 
He  had  no  wish  to  undergo  the  weary  grind  of 
training  for  a  hard  fight;  he  felt  that  he  had 
earned  a  rest.  Before  his  bank  roll  grew  thin 
he  had  been  almost  discourteous  to  the  boxing 
promoters.  These  had  urged  the  claims  of  an 
extremely  tough  youth  named  Dugan,  a  Coast 
product  who  had  blazed  his  way  to  prominence, 
leaving  a  trail  of  battered  middleweights  in  his 
wake.  Summers  had  insisted  that  Dugan  ' '  get 
a  reputation" — an  excuse  much  used  by  cham 
pions  when  wishing  to  sidetrack  a  dangerous 
climber. 

One  rainy  afternoon  at  the  race  track  Sum 
mers  was  learnedly  discussing  mud  runners 
with  Omaha  Slim,  and  keeping  a  wary  eye  on 
the  betting  ring.  While  thus  engaged  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  back  and  shoulders  that  seemed 
strangely  familiar  to  him. 

"Just  like  I'm  tellin'  you,"  Omaha  was  say 
ing;  "them  dinky-legged  beetles  go  good  in 
the  slop.  You  saw  Amphion  win  the  last 

[336] 


FOE   THE   PICTURES 


race.  Now  on  a  dry  track  that  dawg  wouldn't 
have  been  one,  two,  nowheres.  His  legs  would 
have  hurt  him,  and " 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  interrupted  Summers, 
shifting  his  position.  "Ain't  that  John  Gavin 
over  there,  with  his  back  to  us  I " 

"  Yeh,  that's  him.  He's  round  here  a  lot  this 
winter. ' ' 

"What's  he  doing?" 

"Not  much  of  anything.  He's  on  the  tobog 
gan  for  fair.  I  guess  he  never  got  over  that 
quick  trimming  you  handed  him.  Kind  of  broke 
his  heart,  they  say.  Broke  him  every  other  way 
too.  Yeh,  he's  round  here,  bettin'  with  the 
dollar  books,  doin'  the  best  he  can,  same  as  the 
rest  of  us." 

"He  chased  me  all  over  the  country  last 
year,"  said  Summers,  "hollering  for  a  return 
match.  I  let  him  holler. ' ' 

"He  won't  be  chasin'  anybody  now,"  said 
Omaha.  "He's  got  some  trouble  with  his 
back — rheumatism,  maybe.  And  he  wears  a  big 
pair  of  black-rimmed  cheaters,  so  I  guess  his 
eyes  ain't  what  they  used  to  be.  They  go  quick 
when  they  go,  these  tough  sluggers,  don't 
they?" 

"You  bet.    Then  he's  quit  fighting?" 

"Quit  fighting  everything  but  booze.  He 
could  have  had  a  match  with  Dugan  last  Septem 
ber,  but  he  passed  it  up.  Prob'ly  thought 
Dugan  was  hard  game.  Yeh,  John  was  a  good 
ole  wagon,  but  he  done  broke  down." 
[337] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"Tough  luck,"  said  Summers;  and  nearly 
meant  it. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  he  managed  to  con 
trive  a  meeting  with  the  former  champion. 
Summers  expected  hard  words,  and  was  even 
prepared  to  block  a  wild  swing  for  his  jaw, 
but  Gavin  greeted  him  with  a  mildness  almost 
pathetic.  His  spirit  seemed  quite  broken. 

' '  Why,  hello,  Swif  ty !  They  told  me  you  was 
here .  How's  things ? ' ' 

"Fine,"  said  Summers,  making  a  swift  sur 
vey  of  his  victim. 

Gavin  needed  a  shave,  a  cleaner  collar  would 
not  have  hurt  his  appearance,  and  the  suit  that 
he  wore  was  downright  shabby. 

"You  look  it,"  said  Gavin.  "Buy  you  a 
drink?" 

Swifty  accepted  the  invitation,  and  ordered 
a  glass  of  sherry,  but  Gavin  demanded  his 
own  private  bottle  and  poured  out  a  very  stifle 
jolt. 

"Here's  luck!"  said  he,  and  gulped  it  down 
without  blinking. 

Summers  watched  him  curiously  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye. 

1 '  Have  another  ? ' '  asked  the  champion.  "  I  '11 
take  a  cigar  this  time. ' ' 

Again  Gavin  poured  a  staggering  libation 
and  hurried  it  on  its  way. 

"Hitting  that  stuff  awful  hard,  ain't  you?" 
queried  Summers. 

"The  doctor  tells  me  to  lay  off,  but — I  can 
[338] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


stand  it,"  answered  Gavin;  and  as  if  anxious 
to  prove  his  assertion  lie  slopped  out  a  third 
drink,  filling  the  glass  to  the  brim.  "Things 
going  fine  with  you,  eh?  "Well,  I  wish't  I  could 
,say  the  same.  I  ain't  been  doing  much  this 
last  year — gone  stale  or  something.  But  there 's 
a  battle  or  two  left  in  me  yet." 

"Sure  there  is!"  agreed  Summers. 

"You  know,  Swifty,"  said  Gavin,  becoming 
confidential  after  his  third  double  portion, ' '  that 
was  a  rotten  dirty  trick  you  played  on  me,  and 
it  left  me  in  a  fix  where  I  couldn't  say  a  word. 
Not  a  word!  I  fired  Joe  Wells,  though.  Yeh, 
I  got  rid  of  him.  He  oughta  known  that  fellow 
Isaacs  was  the  bunk." 

"The  film  turned  out  bad,"  explained  Sum 
mers  quickly. 

"But  Isaacs  cashed  a  lot  of  tickets  in  the 
pool  rooms  afterward,"  said  Gavin.  "Oh,  I'm 
wise  enough — now.  You — you  want  to  know 
what  made  me  the  sorest?" 

' '  Go  ahead ! ' '  grinned  Summers.  * '  Get  it  off 
your  chest."  . 

' '  You  wouldn  't  fight  me  again.  You  wouldn  't 
make  a  return  match.  I — I  thought  I  was  en 
titled  to  one.  And  that  stuff  you  handed  the 
reporters  about  not  having  to  bother  with  a 
man  you'd  licked  in  a  punch — that  was  pretty 
raw  too.  That  hurt.  Yeh,  you  gimme  all  the 
worst  of  it  when  I  was  chasing  you  for  that 
return  match." 

Gavin  was  reaching  out  to  pour  himself  an- 
[339] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


other  drink,  but  Summers  laid  his  hand  on 
John's  wrist. 

"Maybe  I  was  saving  you  for  this  winter," 
said  he  softly. 

Gavin  peered  incredulously  through  his  black- 
rimmed  spectacles. 

' '  Saving  me  1    Quit  your  kidding ! ' ' 

"But  I  might  be  kidding  on  the  square!" 
persisted  Summers. 

"You  couldn't  even  kid  on  the  square!" 
Gavin  spoke  bitterly.  "You  won't  fight  me 
again,  and  you  know  it ! " 

1 1  How  much  of  a  gate  would  we  draw  ? ' ' 

"Fifteen  thousand  anyway,  maybe  twenty. 
The  town's  full  of  money  this  year.  .  .  .  But 
you  don 't  mean  it. ' ' 

The  champion  patted  Gavin  on  the  shoulder, 
and  his  smile  was  friendliness  itself. 

"The  reason  I  get  away  with  things,"  said 
he,  "is  because  nobody  ever  knows  just  what 
I  mean.  It's  a  good  system.  Can  you  put 
yourself  in  shape — some  kind  of  shape?" 

"I'd  jump  out  of  my  coffin  to  get  in  shape  to 
lick  you ! ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Summers,  "don't  go  to  too 
much  trouble  on  my  account,  old  boy.  I'll  see 
you  in  a  few  days.  And  in  the  meantime  cut 
that  stuff  out.  Booze  ain't  any  good  to  train 
on." 

Summers  walked  away,  but  from  the  edge  of 
the  betting  ring  he  glanced  back  toward  the  bar. 
He  was  in  time  to  see  Gavin  swallow  another 
large  drink. 

[340] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


That  night  Andy  Cullen,  promoter  of  boxing 
contests,  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine  with 
Summers. 

"He  wants  to  talk  business,"  thought  Cullen 
as  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  "The  bookmakers 
have  got  his  dough  and  now  he'll  be  reason 
able.  "  ! 

The  exact  nature  of  the  business  that  Sum 
mers  wished  to  discuss  proved  somewhat  of  a 
surprise  to  Cullen. 

"You  want  to  fight  Gavin  again!  But 
Gavin's  all  in — down  and  out.  The  fight 
wouldn't  draw  flies !" 

"You're  a  smart  fellow,"  grinned  Summers. 
"You're  ace-high  with  the  newspaper  men. 
You  can  make  it  draw. ' ' 

"How!" 

"By  playing  it  up  as  a  grudge  fight.  Every 
body  remembers  how  he  hollered  two  years  ago 
— how  he  chased  me  all  over  the  country.  To 
be  candid  with  you,  I  didn't  want  to  fight  him 
then.  Maybe  I  was  a  little  lucky  to  stop  him 
with  a  punch,  and  I  didn't  want  to  take  chances 
on  him  again.  It's  different  now.  You  get 
Gavin  to  come  out  with  a  challenge  and  a  good 
strong  statement  burning  me  up  for  not  giving 
him  a  return  match.  That'll  start  everybody  to 
talking,  and  at  the  right  time  I'll  get  sore  and 
call  his  bluff." 

"All  fine  as  silk,"  interrupted  the  promoter,' 
"but  Dugan  is  the  man  they  want  to  see  you 
fight.  Gavin  is  drinking  himself  to  death.  He 
[341] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


kills  about  a  quart  a  day  out  at  the  track.    Now, 

Dugan " 

Summers  rapped  gently  on  the  table  with  his 
closed  fist  and  his  brown  eyes  grew  hard  as  moss 
agates. 

I  'Nothing — doing — on — Dugan.    I   told   you 
that  before.    I  don 't  mind  telling  you  something 
else:  I  won't  train  for  a  hard  fight.    I'm  the 
champion,  I'm  the  one  they  want  to  see,  and  I 
intend  to  dictate  terms.    Gavin  is  the  only  man 
I'll  meet.    A  daylight  fight,  and  moving  pic 
tures.     I'll  stall  along  for  seven  or  eight  rounds, 
then  I'll  drop  him  right  in  front  of  the  camera. 
That  knowledge  ought  to  be  worth  something  to 
you — in  a  betting  way.    Now,  do  you  want  the 
match  or  not?" 

' '  Oh,  hell ! ' '  grumbled  Cullen.  * '  If  you  insist 
on  robbing  a  graveyard  I  might  as  well  be  the 
undertaker ! ' ' 

" That's  talking  sense.  Now  get  hold  of 
Gavin  and  break  the  news  to  him.  The  split 
will  be  eighty-twenty." 

II  That's  an  awful  short  loser's  end,"  objected 
Cullen. 

"It's  plenty  long  enough  for  Gavin.  Man 
alive,  have  you  seen  him  lately !  He  looks  like 
a  bum.  Oh,  yes,  one  thing  more." 

" What's  that?"  demanded  Cullen  suspi 
ciously. 

''Gavin  had  better  do  his  training  up  in  the 

mountains,  where  too  many  wise  people  won't 

see  him.    I  think  he  '11  try  hard  to  get  into  shape 

for  a  fight — he  believes  he  owes  me  a  licking  j 

[342] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


but  trying  and  doing  are  two  different  things. 
Ship  him  to  some  mountain  resort  where  he  '11  be 
out  of  the  way.  We  don't  want  everybody  in  the 
world  to  know  that  we've  picked  a  dead  one." 

"You're  a  wonder!"  exclaimed  the  admiring 
Cullen.  ' '  You  think  of  -everything,  don 't  you  ? ' ' 

"I  figure  all  the  angles,"  was  the  modest 
reply. 


Mighty  indeed  is  the  noble  institution  known 
as  the  press. 

Two  days  later  John  Gavin,  assisted  from  his 
sarcophagus  by  Mr.  Cullen 's  clever  press  agent, 
let  out  a  ferocious  and  defiant  roar,  which 
echoed  and  reechoed  among  the  sporting  pages. 
Summers,  said  Gavin,  was  afraid  to  fight  him 
again — had  been  dodging  him  for  two  years. 
He  had  won  the  title  with  a  lucky  punch,  and 
had  proved  that  such  was  the  case  by  refusing 
to  make  another  match.  Summers,  said  Gavin, 
was  a  fluke  champion. 

The  fluke  champion,  when  interviewed  about 
the  matter,  managed  to  convey  the  impression 
that  he  was  not  fight-hungry,  but  stated  that 
should  this  hunger  develop  there  were  others 
whose  claims  took  precedence  of  Gavin's. 

Gavin  replied  with  a  double-column  blast ;  and 
the  great  unenlightened  public  began  to  sit  up 
and  rub  its  eyes,  demanding  to  know  what  all 
the  noise  was  about.  The  effect  of  this  cam 
paign  was  to  stimulate  interest  in  the  former 
champion  and  create  a  desire  to  see  the  question 
[343] 


TAKING    THE    COUNT 


settled  with  fists  rather  than  linotype  machines. 
For  a  solid  week  Summers  and  Gavin  fought 
each  other  all  over  the  keyboards  of  sporting- 
department  typewriters,  at  the  end  of  which 
time  the  champion  descended  from  his  high 
horse,  and  articles  of  war  were  signed,  wit 
nessed  and  put  away  in  Cullen's  safe. 

Gavin  went  to  the  mountains  while  Sum 
mers  crossed  the  bay,  establishing  his  training 
camp  at  Alameda.  For  weeks  the  daily  doings 
of  the  gladiators  were  recorded  in  the  public 
prints.  Both  men,  said  the  scribes,  were  mak 
ing  ready  for  the  fight  of  their  lives.  On  the 
eve  of  battle  they  were  reported  to  be  "in  the 
pink  of  condition"  and  "fit  as  fiddles,"  though 
what  a  fiddle  looks  like  when  it  is  fit  is  one  of 
the  things  that  "no  fellah  can  find  out." 

Summers  was  a  topheavy  favorite  in  the  pool 
rooms  at  odds  of  two  to  one.  The  racetrack 
gamblers  covered  the  short-end  sympathy  bets, 
and  pooh-poohed  the  idea  that  Gavin  might 
come  back.  Pugilism  was  not  their  game,  but 
they  had  seen  Gavin  paying  heavy  court  to  his 
private  bottle,  and  cheerfully  bet  twos  to  win 
ones.  No  man,  they  said,  could  fight  a  hard 
draw  with  John  Barleycorn  and  knock  out 
Swif  ty  Summers  all  in  the  same  season.  It  was 
a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  only  way  the 
grizzly  could  regain  his  title  was  to  drop  the 
champion  for  the  count. 

Gavin  arrived  in  San  Francisco  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  on  the  day  of  the  fight. 
[344] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


The  men  were  to  weigh  in  at  noon  at  a  pool 
room  on  Eddy  Street,  and  when  the  former 
champion  and  his  handlers  arrived  the  place 
was  packed  to  the  doors  and  the  overflow 
blocked  the  sidewalk.  There  was  little  curiosity 
as  far  as  Summers  was  concerned ;  most  of  the 
sporting  men  had  visited  his  training  camp  and 
were  satisfied  with  his  condition.  Gavin  they 
had  not  seen,  and  they  swallowed  the  newspaper 
reports  with  a  grain  of  salt.  They  wanted  to 
see  the  challenger,  stripped  to  the  skin,  on  the 
platform  of  the  weighing  machine.  The  side 
walk  crowd  gave  Gavin  a  cheer  when  he  ap 
peared,  grim  and  tanned  and  sullen,  a  cap  pulled 
low  over  his  eyes  and  the  collar  of  his  heavy 
sweater  rolled  up  till  it  covered  his  ears.  They 
saw  no  more  of  him  than  the  tip  of  his  nose 
and  the  straight  line  of  his  mouth,  and  they  got 
nothing  out  of  him,  though  they  patted  him  on 
the  shoulders  and  slapped  him  on  the  back  and 
showered  him  with  good  wishes. 
I  Gavin  elbowed  his  way  straight  to  the  en 
trance,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left. 
He  knew  that  the  shoulder-patters  and  back- 
slappers  would  give  Summers  the  same  welcome 
they  had  given  him,  and  in  his  simple  honest 
heart  John  Gavin  hated  a  hypocrite.  Just  as 
he  crossed  the  threshold  the  clatter  of  hoofs, 
the  rattle  of  carriage  wheels  and  loud  cheer 
ing  announced  the  arrival  of  the  champion. 

A  grievous  disappointment  was  in  store  for 
the  lucky  ones  in  the  inner  room.     They  saw 
John  Gavin  make  the  weight — they  saw  his  lean 
[345] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


sunburned  face  with  the  skin  drawn  tight  over 
the  cheek  bones  and  the  angle  of  the  jaw,  and 
they  saw  his  bare  legs.  They  wanted  to  see  his 
shoulders  and  chest,  his  back — and,  most  of  all, 
the  muscles  covering  his  stomach,  if  any.  But 
John  climbed  on  the  platform  clad  in  a  soft 
gray  shirt,  which  covered  him  completely  from 
neck  to  knees :  and  the  bar,  set  at  the  prescribed 
notch,  did  not  even  quiver.  The  most  disap 
pointed  man  in  the  room  was  Swifty  Summers, 
hurriedly  divesting  himself  of  his  clothing,  pre 
tending  a  lack  of  interest  but  furtively  watching 
every  move  that  Gavin  made. 

''He's  a  pound  or  so  under,"  thought  the 
champion.  "Now  is  he  in  condition  or  has  he 
been  taking  mud  baths  to  get  the  belly  off  him? 
Hell!  He  can't  be  in  condition!" 

Not  a  word  passed  between  the  fighters,  and 
it  was  remarked  afterward  that  Gavin  never 
even  so  much  as  looked  at  Summers.  Summers 
noticed  this,  and  it  added  to  his  slight  feeling  of 
uneasiness.  Men  who  are  about  to  fight  a 
grudge  fight  do  not  exchange  pleasantries  while 
weighing  in,  but  it  is  seldom  that  a  challenger 
loses  a  chance  to  size  up  a  champion. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life  Gavin  sat  in 
his  corner  and  looked  at  a  motion-picture  cam 
era.  To  be  exact,  he  looked  at  a  whole  battery 
of  cameras,  for  film  will  buckle  and  Cullen  was 
taking  no  chances.  Gavin  scowled  and  nursed 
the  bulge  of  his  right  glove  in  the  cup  of  the  left. 
He  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Isaacs — Mr.  Isaacs  and 
[346] 


FOB  THE  PICTURES 


the  camera  that  did  not  shoot  because  it  was 
not  loaded.  Gavin's  chief  second  nudged  him. 

"Hey!  Wake  up!  They  want  you  for  the 
snapshots!  Lemme  have  that  bathrobe." 

Gavin  shook  his  head  and  marched  to  the 
middle  of  the  ring,  completely  covered  from 
neck  to  heels.  Not  since  he  entered  the  arena 
had  he  shown  anything  but  his  ankles,  and  this 
prolonged  exhibition  of  modesty  was  more  than 
a  nervous  man  could  bear. 

"Going  to  wear  that  thing  all  the  afternoon?" 
sneered  the  champion.  "Afraid  to  take  it  off, 
or  what?" 

Gavin  did  not  even  turn  his  head  in  Sum 
mers  '  direction.  He  seemed  to  be  giving  all  his 
attention  to  the  fussy  little  photographer.  He 
kept  his  opponent  under  tension  to  the  very  last 
instant,  then  tossed  his  bathrobe  behind  him  and 
drew  a  deep  breath,  his  great  hairy  chest  rising 
almost  to  his  chin.  Several  thousand  citizens 
drew  a  deep  breath  with  him,  letting  it  out  in 
low  whistles  of  amazement  and  admiration,  for 
if  ever  a  fighting  man  looked  fit  it  was  John 
Gavin  that  day. 

Summers  knew  condition  when  he  saw  it,  and 
here  was  a  miracle — a  broken-down,  tippling 
has-been  suddenly  returned  to  his  prime.  The 
lean  flanks,  the  hard  ridges  guarding  the  ab 
domen,  the  powerful  shoulder  muscles  rippling 
under  the  hairy  skin — this  was  the  Gavin  of 
two  years  ago — Gavin,  or  a  counterfeit  that 
would  have  deceived  the  elite. 

Yes,  it  was  the  physical  shell  of  John  Gavin ; 
[347] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


but  what  was  inside  it?  And  how  had  he  man 
aged  to  turn  back  the  clock?  As  they  fell  into 
fighting1  pose  the  challenger  looked  the  champion 
straight  in  the  eye  and  grinned. 

' '  I  got  you  where  I  want  you  now, ' '  said  John. 
"Eight  where  I  been  trying  to  get  you  for  two 
(years.  Look  me  over ! ' ' 

"Look  you  over!"  answered  the  quick-witted 
Summers.  "I'll  knock  you  over,  same  as  I  did 
before!'* 

"When  you  used  to  be  a  pool  shark,  trimming 
suckers,"  said  Gavin,  "did  you  carry  your  cue 
with  you  all  the  time?  "We're  here  to  get  our 
pictures  took,  not  to  fight.  You'll  get  all  the 
fighting  you  want  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Gentlemen!  Gent-lemen!"  murmured  the 
referee. 

When  the  gong  rang  it  was  the  old  Gavin  who 
came  charging  out  of  his  corner,  bent  on  fight 
ing  his  old  fight — a  human  battering  ram  hur 
rying  into  action  at  close  range.  Summers  had 
been  given  a  moment  in  which  to  think,  and  he 
had  decided  on  a  plan  of  battle  based  on  the 
assumption  that  the  challenger  was  nothing 
more  than  the  hard-looking  shell  of  his  former 
self.  How  could  a  man  drink  a  quart  of  whisky 
a  day  and  come  back — in  five  weeks  ?  The  thing 
was  an  impossibility! 

"He  looks  good,"  Summers  had  said  to  his 
seconds,  "and  it's  a  cinch  he's  worked  hard, 
but  he  can't  last.  I'll  keep  away  from  him  for 

[348] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


a  few  rounds,  and  when  lie  begins  to  slow  np 
I'll  pick  him  to  pieces  at  long-  range." 

The  plan  was  a  good  one,  but  before  the  fight 
was  ten  seconds  old  Summers  realized  that  it 
would  be  extremely  difficult  to  keep  away  from 
Gavin  for  any  length  of  time.  The  champion 
feinted  and  danced,  side-stepped  and  turned, 
twisted  and  dodged,  but  Gavin  was  always  there 
in  front  of  him,  hammering  away  with  both  fists. 
Summers  ducked  into  a  clinch,  but  was  glad  to 
duck  out  of  it  again.  He  prided  himself  on  the 
strength  of  his  arms,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  pin  the  pistons  of  a  locomotive  as  to 
smother  those  short-tearing  jolts  to  his  mid- 
section.  Gavin  was  too  strong  to  be  handled 
in  the  clinches,  and  the  punishing  power  in  the 
few  long-range  body  blows  that  crashed  through 
the  champion's  guard  warned  him  not  to  stand 
and  play  for  an  opening  through  which  to  shoot 
his  famous  right  hook. 

Driven  into  a  corner,  Summers  tried  to  clinch 
again.  This  time  Gavin  almost  cracked  his 
ribs  in  a  crushing  embrace,  holding  him  long 
enough  to  ask  him  two  questions : 

"Thought  you  was  picking  on  a  cripple,  hey? 
iWhat  do  you  think  of  your  cripple  now?" 

Having  asked  his  questions  Gavin  hurled 
Summers  halfway  across  the  ring  and  renewed 
the  attack.  Round  and  round  they  went,  Sum 
mers  retreating  under  cover  of  a  hurried  and 
harmless  left  jab,  Gavin  crowding  him  closely, 
and  finding  time  to  talk  to  his  man  between 
flurries : 

[349] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


"You  fought  me  to  reform  me,  hey?  .  .  . 
Thought  I  was  hitting  the  booze  pretty  hard? 
...  So  did  everybody  else.  .  .  .  Guess  that's 
the  reason  you  didn't  bother  to  train.  .  .  . 
Looked  pretty  soft  to  you,  didn't  I?  ...  Well, 
I'm  the  hardest  soft  guy  you  ever  saw!" 

"What's  he  talking  about?"  demanded  Sum 
mers'  chief  second  when  the  round  was  over. 
"I  never  saw  him  talk  in  a  fight  before." 

"He's  put  one  over  on  me  somehow,"  mum 
bled  the  champion.  "I  don't  know  how,  but 
he's  done  it." 

"He  ain't  put  nothin*  over  on  you  yet.  He 
can't  hit  you.  You'll  lick  him,  sure." 

"Yes,"  said  Summers,  "I'll  lick  him,  but — I 
wished  I'd  trained  harder  for  this  bird!" 

Eminent  experts  agree  that  the  champion's 
only  chance  to  retain  his  title  came  early  in  the 
second  round.  Gavin  slipped  and  left  an  open 
ing  for  his  jaw,  and  when  Summers  saw  it  he 
forgot  all  about  his  agreement  that  there  should 
be  eight  rounds  of  film — forgot  everything  but 
the  opportunity  to  extricate  himself  from  a 
dangerous  situation.  Quick  as  a  flash  Summers 
set  himself  and  let  fly  with  his  main  battery, 
putting  into  the  shot  everything  that  he  had  or 
was  or  hoped  to  be.  It  was  the  sort  of  right- 
hand  punch  that  makes  and  unmakes  champions, 
it  was  beautifully  timed  and  perfectly  executed, 
it  went  straight  to  the  chin,  and  it  dropped  John 
Gavin  to  his  knees. 

The  referee  began  to  count,  marking  time 
with  his  right  hand  and  holding  Summers  at  bay 
[350] 


FOR   THE    PICTUEES 


with  his  left.  Gavin  shook  his  head,  like  a 
swimmer  coining  to  the  surface  after  a  dive. 
Then  he  looked  up  at  Summers  skirmishing  in 
and  out,  his  right  hand  poised  for  the  finishing 
blow;  and  as  he  looked,  Gavin's  mouth  curved 
into  a  scornful  grin.  He  gathered  himself  to 
gether  as  a  sprinter  gathers  himself  for  a 
crouching  start. 

"Just  wanted  to  see  if  you  could  hurt  me, 
Swifty.  .  .  .  You  can't;  it  ain't  in  you.  Now 
look  out  for  yourself ! ' ' 

He  came  to  his  feet  with  a  rush,  diving 
straight  at  Summers,  who  stood  his  ground  and 
aimed  a  short  uppercut  at  Gavin's  chin.  The 
uppercut  missed  connections,  but  Gavin's  right 
fist  did  not.  It  crashed  home  just  below  the  rib 
line,  and  it  sent  the  champion  reeling  backward 
to  the  ropes,  sick  and  dizzy. 

Very  few  world's  champions  have  lost  their 
titles  without  making  a  desperate  attempt  to 
hold  them.  Summers  was  tricky  and  unscrupu 
lous;  he  took  the  best  of  it  whenever  he  could 
and  disdained  the  even  break;  but  underneath 
all  his  treachery  and  meanness  was  the  heart 
.of  a  fighting  man.  The  tide  of  battle  had  turned 
against  him  with  a  swiftness  almost  incredible, 
but  with  the  ropes  chafing  his  back  the  cham 
pion  made  his  stand,  fighting  as  he  had  never 
fought  in  his  life.  Time  after  time  he  rocked 
Gavin's  head  with  rights  and  lefts,  putting  into 
them  everything  that  the  damaging  body  blow 
had  left  him,  and  taking  a  savage  beating  in 
return.  Just  before  the  bell  rang  Gavin  landed 
[351] 


TAKING   THE   COUNT 


another  pile-driving  punch  below  the  rib  line 
and  Summers '  knees  bent  under  him.  He  would 
have  slipped  to  the  floor  had  not  Gavin  hauled 
him  into  a  clinch. 

"You're  licked,"  said  John,  "but  I  ain't 
through  with  you  yet.  Die  game — for  the  pic 
tures!" 

As  far  as  Summers  was  concerned  the  fight 
ended  then  and  there.  He  went  to  his  corner 
whipped  and  knowing  that  he  was  whipped. 
He  could  never  hope  to  hit  Gavin  any  harder 
than  he  had  hit  him  in  the  second  round,  and 
Gavin  had  stayed  down  only  five  seconds. 

It  was  in  the  third  round  that  Gavin  added 
insult  to  injury.  He  had  just  flattened  Sum 
mers'  nose  with  an  overhand  swing,  and  was 
holding  the  champion  on  his  feet  with  his  face 
turned  to  the  camera  so  that  the  blood  would 
show. 

"I  musta  looked  pretty  bad  to  you  that  day 
at  the  track,"  said  Gavin.  "Glasses,  and  a 
lame  back  and  everything.  Yeh,  I  practiced 
looking  bad  for  a  couple  of  months  before  you 
showed  up.  I  knew  you  wouldn  't  fight  me  again 
unless  you  thought  I  was  all  in.  You  fell  for 
it.  ...  All  right,  referee.  He's  hanging  on;  I 
ain't." 

And  later: 

"The  only  way  to  catch  a  crook  is  to  play 
him  crooked.  .  .  .  There's  real  fillum  in  these 
cameras  to-day.  .  .  .  Turn  your  head  a  little  so 
they  can  get  a  picture  of  how  pretty  you  look ! ' ' 

With  half  a  minute  remaining,  Gavin  shot  a 
[352] 


FOR   THE   PICTURES 


short  ugly  hook  through  Summers'  wavering 
guard  and  knocked  out  three  of  his  most  cher 
ished  teeth.  The  champion  flopped  limply  into 
a  clinch  and  received  his  final  bit  of  astounding 
information : 

'  *  Burnt  sugar  and  water  looks  a  lot  like  booze, 
v  ..  .  Pours  like  booze,  too,  but  it  don't  do  you 
no  harm.  ...  If  it  did  I'd!  be  dead  now.  .  .  . 
Yeh,  I  guess  the  bartender  that  made  my  private 
stock '11  win  him  some  dough  to-day!" 

Summers'  chief  second  waved  the  bottle  of 
smelling  salts  back  and  forth  under  the  cham 
pion's  battered  nose. 

"He's  murderm'  you,"  said  the  adviser. 
"Can't  you  mix  it  or  nothing?" 

* '  Burnt  sugar ! ' '  groaned  Summers.  ' '  Burnt 
sugar  and  water!" 

"Hey,  have  a  sniff  o'  this!"  ordered  the 
chief  second.  "Your  mind  is  wanderin'!" 

Toward  the  end  of  the  fourth  round  the  crowd 
began  to  yell  at  the  referee  to  stop  the  fight. 
Summers  was  barely  able  to  remain  on  his  feet 
and  Gavin  was  playing  with  him,  hitting  him  at 
will  as  he  wabbled  wearily  along  the  ropes. 

The  referee  glanced  doubtfully  at  Andy  Cul- 
len,  huddled  up  in  his  ringside  box,  a  life-size 
portrait  of  woe  too  deep  for  words.  Cullen  had 
bet  more  money  than  he  cared  to  think  about, 
but  he  owned  a  third  of  the  motion  pictures,  and 
a  clean  knockout  might  enhance  their  value  and 
put  him  even  with  the  world  again.  The  pro 
moter  shook  his  head  slightly,  and  the  referee 
[353] 


TAKING   THE    COUNT 


sidled  over  to  where  Gavin  was  alternately 
thumping  Summers  in  the  ribs  and  holding 
him  on  his  feet  to  keep  him  from  falling. 

1 '  Gwan,  John ! ' '  muttered  the  official.  '  *  Gwan, 
finish  it!  He's  out  now — out  on  his  feet!" 

Gavin  glanced  at  the  battery  of  cameras  and 
grinned. 

' '  Come  on,  champ, ' '  he  whispered.  ' '  This  is 
where  you  get  it  good — for  the  pictures !" 

He  backed  Summers  clear  across  the  ring, 
halting  him  close  to  the  ropes  and  directly 
underneath  the  lenses,  jolted  him  once  or  twice 
to  straighten  him  up  and  then  pinned  his  arms 
at  his  sides. 

"Hey,  you  guys  up  there!"  bawled  Gavin, 
addressing  the  photographers.  "Got  plenty 
of  fillum  left,  have  you?  None  of  them  boxes 
empty?  .  .  .  All  right.  Git  this,  all  of  you; 
it's  going  to  be  good!" 

He  released  Summers,  stepped  quickly  away 
from  him  and  back  again,  feinting  savagely  at 
the  sore  ribs  with  his  left  hand.  Summers 
dropped  his  guard  and  bent  forward,  and  as  he 
did  so  Gavin's  right  glove  swung  full  and  clean 
against  his  chin.  The  champion  of  the  world 
plunged  head  first  through  the  ropes,  breaking 
one  telegraph  instrument  and  knocking  three 
reporters  and  one  special  writer  out  of  their 
chairs. 

' '  There  you  are ! ' '  grinned  the  new-old  chares 
pion  as  he  looked  down  on  his  work  and  saw  that 
it  was  good.  '  *  That  ought  to  make  a  swell  fin 
ish — for  the  pictures!" 

[354] 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


NON-REI 


JUL  3  1 1995 


IAIE  RECEIVED 


A    001262282 


PS 

35U3 

Y32t 


u 


